Lean on Moi
by D1g1m0ncrazy
Summary: They'd both agreed... they were brothers. However, now that the tables are turned and Britain is ill, France finds tending to him is no easy task. Britain has no choice other than to rely on France, but will the Frenchman buckle under the pressure? Sequel to For the Sake of Friendship! Rated T for Safety. And France. No pairings, unless you count random, nameless BG characters.
1. Shop 'Til You Drop

A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he turned the page of his morning paper. Normally, the soft crinkling sound that followed this motion would have been familiar and welcome, but not this morning. If anything, every sound seemed to echo through his skull and squeeze down on his brain. Britain let another sigh fall and set down his newspaper so he might rub his temples. Why wouldn't this blasted headache just go away? Letting his hands slip down over his face slowly, the Englishman stood and pushed in his chair. There was no point in trying to read the paper right now, he decided. Indeed, he had other things to get done today. Attempting to ignore the pain pulsing through his head, Britain peered into his refrigerator and heaved another sigh.

It was as he'd suspected, it was time to go grocery shopping. Knowing there was no point in ignoring the inevitable, the English nation headed for the front door. As he walked across the floor, his steps did not go unnoticed by a certain Frenchman.

Hastily, France found himself standing from his spot on the sofa. Just where was Britain going? Easily, he caught up with the younger man before he could make it out the door "And where is it you think you are going, Mon Ami?" the Frenchman demanded.

"None of your bloody business, Frog. I told you to go home already" Britain huffed.

"Ah, but you are the one with the car, no?" France said.

Britain bit his lip, this was true. The last Allies meeting had been in London and almost all the other allies, excluding himself, had taken a taxi cab to get there from the airport. "Alright, if you must know, I'm going to pick up some bloody groceries." He said in defeat.

"Ah! That is perfect, Mon Cher! I have a few things to pick up myself!" France lied.

Britain arched an eyebrow "Can't you bloody well go shopping when you get back to your own country?" his head pounded with each word he spoke.

"I suppose I could Mon Ami…" France pretended to sound hurt.

Britain rubbed his temples, arguing with France wasn't helping his poor, aching head "Fine. Bloody fine, come along if you so desire."

France grinned broadly. Truth be told, he could tell Britain was under the weather. Even if the Englishman himself didn't realize it, France didn't want to take any chances. He'd keep an eye on Britain.

Britain grumbled under his breath as he led the Frenchman out the door. Carefully locking the house behind him, Britain proceeded to his car. Unlocking the front passenger door for France's sake, Britain then leaned back in the driver's seat and closed his eyes a moment. Why did he have such a bloody headache? If he didn't know better, he'd have thought he was hung-over. Though if he recalled, he hadn't consumed any alcohol last night, or for that matter, he hadn't touched the stuff in months. He simply hadn't had the reason or the desire. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Surprised, the Englishman flinched and found himself staring at the hand's owner.

"You alright, Mon Cher?" France was asking.

When had France even gotten in? He hadn't heard the door click open… he pushed that thought away and quickly found his tongue "Yes I'm bloody well fine… I was just thinking" Britain said defensively. He turned the key in the ignition and began to drive away from his house and towards his destination. He didn't chance another glance at the older country, he wasn't sure if his eyes would betray him. However, had he looked over at his passenger he would have seen a look of pure concern upon the older man's countenance.

It wasn't terribly long before Britain guided his vehicle to a halt in the parking lot of a tall brick building which appeared to be a super market. A pair of glass doors slid open and shut automatically, allowing patrons to come and go as they pleased. Britain finally turned to the Frenchman beside him "Well here we are" he stated a bit flatly as he let himself out of the car.

"Oui, it looks like a nice shopping center. I am sure I will find what I need to pick up here" France said.

Britain arched an eyebrow, a part of him wondering what France could possibly need so desperately, another part of him simply didn't _want_ to know. It was the latter that prevailed and without a word he led the Frenchman inside. Carefully choosing a clean shopping basket, Britain slipped it over his forearm and walked into the store. France kept pace with the Englishman rather easily, much to Britain's annoyance.

Britain glanced at the Frenchman whom he felt was stalking him. Why was he _not_ surprised that the Frenchman hadn't even _bothered_ to get a basket?

"_I know you don't like me following you Mon Cher, but you have me a bit concerned, no_?" France thought to himself.

They were not the only ones in the store; to be sure, there were men and women alike all bustling about to get their own groceries.

"_At the very least you should let me return the fav- Ooh la la_" France's train of thought was interrupted as his eyes trained on something far different than the British nation beside him "_Oh hon hon… sculpted by God himself… so perfect_"

Britain had paused to rub his temples, his headache felt like it was getting worse, if that was indeed possible- in fact he was starting to feel a little woozy. Perhaps France wouldn't mind driving on the way back to his place; the Frenchman seemed to insist on sticking around for the time being anyway. Trying to seem in a better mood, Britain decided not to lead with his main question. His mind feeling a bit hazy, he spoke slowly "So…uh... France? What is it exactly you came here to pick up?" he asked, trying to sound as kind as possible though lord knows it was hard. His entire head pulsed like a beating heart.

Not getting a response, Britain figured perhaps he had spoken too softly "France, I asked-" the words died in his mouth as he turned to the French nation, realizing he wasn't even paying attention to him. He was staring at something _ahead_ of them. Britain followed the Frenchman's gaze and what he saw made his chest swell with anger. France wasn't just spacing out; he was watching the rear of a young woman in front of them who happened to be sporting a mini skirt and a midriff top. The tush swayed side to side gently as the woman walked; quite unaware of the attention she was receiving.

Britain, however, had seen more than enough "Bloody Pervert!" he snapped and stormed off. He should have expected as much from France, but right now he just wasn't in the mood to deal with it.

France, being who he was, didn't notice his younger brother's disappearance right away. He continued to stalk the dame from a distance, contentedly watching the fluid motions of her _graceful_ figure.

Britain wasn't sure why, but he was absolutely livid. "_Oh he had something to pick up alright! Why didn't I see this coming?!_" He shouted mentally. It wasn't as if this was anything new, France had been this way for a long time. Still, even trying to imagine what ran through the Frenchman's head was sickening. Perhaps what was even more upsetting was the fact that he was actually going to swallow his blasted pride and ask a favor of France, and the older nation had completely and utterly ignored him. Fuming, Britain stuffed a few groceries into his basket and moved on to the freezer section of the store. After all, he needed to get fish, eggs, and milk among other things. His anger was short-lived; however, as the pain pulsing through his brain took precedence once again.

The Englishman did his best to push through the intense discomfort as he bent down to retrieve a carton of eggs. So long as he focused on his task… he would be fine. Sadly, he didn't take into account that the simple action of bending over would make things that much worse. A spasm of pain rang down his spinal column and settled itself in the middle of his back. Caught off guard by the sudden infliction, Britain cried out in pain, grasping the nearest shelf for support "Bloody hell" he muttered silently, eyes clamped shut.

France followed the girl for some time, interested in only one thing. He was snapped out of his questionable thoughts as she approached a young man. She embraced him tightly and planted a kiss on his cheek. It was then that France's eyes drifted to her hand which clearly bore an engagement ring. He quickly lost interest, if there was one thing he respected it was true love and he had no intention of interrupting that where he found it. Heaving a small sigh at the time he'd wasted fantasizing, his mind quickly returned to his prior line of thought, which lead him to realize one thing- Britain was nowhere in sight! "Sacre Bleu! I am so very stupid!" France proclaimed to no one in particular. How could he have forgotten? The last time he'd seen Britain, he seemed to be in more discomfort. He hoped to God that the Englishman wasn't lying unconscious somewhere! With that thought in mind, the Frenchman dashed off through the store to find the younger man.

Realizing at least the pain in his back wasn't getting any worse, gave Britain the courage to pull himself back into a standing position, albeit a stiff one. He'd managed to get the egg carton in his basket, but that was the least of his concerns. He staggered over to one of the many freezer doors, grabbing the handle for support. He rested his face against the cool glass, peering inside idly. Ironically, he'd chosen a freezer that just happened to have fish filets inside. Normally, he would have spent several minutes determining which fish was the best quality. Right now, however, the Englishman was finding he simply didn't care so long as he completed the task at hand. Opening the door slowly, he grabbed a few of the nearest packages, not even bothering to read their labels. He shut the door and leaned against it with a heavy sigh, his whole body was starting to feel rather weak and his mind felt as though it were turning inward on itself.

It was then that the Frenchman caught up to him, he could tell at a glance that something was wrong. Britain indeed looked like he had grown paler, in fact he looked like he might faint or even worse, that he was in the process of doing just that. France quickly rushed to the younger man's side, placing his hands on his shoulders "Britain, Britain are you alright?"

Britain's emerald eyes fluttered open, though they seemed rather hazy. He looked at France in what appeared to be confusion… what was he doing here?

The odd stare concerned the Frenchman further "Britain… everything alright?" he addressed the Englishman again.

"Yes… Bloody hell, yes… I'm fine, stupid frog" Britain heard his own words dully; it was as if his mouth was functioning all by itself.

France frowned, lifting his hands from Britain's shoulders only to remove one of his gloves with the full intent of feeling the younger man's forehead.

Britain, however, seemed to have other plans as he began to move away from the French nation. He staggered like a drunken man, a dazed look in his eyes matching his teetering motions.

France seemed shocked, and perhaps that was why he didn't realize Britain was heading right for an obstacle. With the miscalculations of a hazy mind, the Englishman's leg connected with a fruit stand at the end of the isle. With a groan he stumbled, his front half sprawling into the display and scattering fruit all over the floor.

"Arthur!" the Frenchman shouted in surprise as he went to help the dazed man right himself.

Surprisingly, the Englishman shrugged his hands away and stared at him blankly as he wavered where he stood "Ah, France what brings you to London?" he said finally.

If he hadn't been worried before, he certainly was now "Surely you are joking, Mon Ami… you remember, don't you?"

He was met by that same blank stare.

France felt his stomach twisting in knots, was Britain really this bad off already? He forced himself to continue "There was a meeting about a week ago… I- I took ill and you took me home and took care of me" he searched the other man's eyes for some recollection, but he was met by green pools of nothingness. Finally, he reached out to touch the other nation's forehead.

Britain felt like he was dreaming, he wasn't sure precisely what was going on. He must be dreaming, after all, France was here and he wasn't insulting him. Though it was a bit odd, usually his fairy tale friends were in his dreams… but not this time. "Flying Mint Bunny… are you hiding?" he slurred out.

France frowned, not only was Britain burning up, but he seemed delirious. He supposed he should have guessed; Britain always seemed so vulnerable when it came to illness. "Britain, I am taking you home. Hand over your keys" he said firmly.

"Don't talk to me like I'm five…bloody wanker!" Britain snapped, pointing an accusing finger at the fruit stand which was clearly meant for France.

A few customers were staring by now, while others seemed to assume that the Englishman was drunk and wanted to steer as clear from the situation as possible.

"Britain, I am serious" France said coolly "Hand over your keys"

Britain pretended not to hear him as he surveyed the area for his magical friend. Spotting the winged rabbit hovering over register five a smiled crossed his flushed face "Ah, there you are Flying Mint Bunny!"

"_Come to the checkout, Britain_" he could hear the enchanted creature giggling "_You have to buy the food first_"

"Quite right, I'll be right over" he smiled and made a mad dash for the register.

France chased after the delusional Brit, but the Englishman had a fair head start.

As he neared the register, he slowed to a halt suddenly becoming painfully aware of the massive aching that threatened to consume his whole being. He shuddered and wavered where he stood. Were dreams meant to hurt like this? He felt his vision clouding over as a massive wave of dizziness swept over him. Any and all balance he'd previously held was yanked out from under him and he fell forward, desperately grasping the person in front of him for support.

Sadly for Britain, the customer was startled and shoved away his grip "Bloody git, give me some space!" a man's voice snapped, not realizing just to whom he was speaking.

It wasn't as though it mattered, Britain couldn't see him anyway, even Flying Mint Bunny was flickering out of sight "Bloody hell" he murmured weakly, the last of his consciousness slipping away. The basket he'd managed to keep all this time flew from his arm and crashed to the floor- creating a mess of various food items all pelted in the slimy yellow ooze of egg yolks.

France lunged forward, barely catching the younger man before he could crack his head off the linoleum floor "Sacre Bleu! Britain, you idiot!" he shouted at the unconscious man in his arms.

In complete and utter shock, the clerk behind the register slowly found her tongue "B-Britain? As in the Great Britain? As in this country?" she squeaked, though she knew full well the answer.

"Oui, and he is very sick" France said, biting his lip. He couldn't help but feel responsible. If he had just stuck by Britain, instead of letting his stupid hormones get the best of him! If he had just stuck by Britain, perhaps the man he now held in his arms wouldn't be unconscious.

"S-Should I phone an ambulance?" the clerk asked, at a loss.

"I... erm… I could use my cell phone" the nearby customer offered awkwardly.

"N-Non" France found a lump forming in his throat "I will take care of him." He had to, or at the very least he'd try. If he didn't, how would he ever get rid of this nagging guilt? Britain had been a faithful friend in his time of need, now it was time he returned the favor, that had been his plan from the beginning before he'd become…sidetracked. Disgusted with himself, the Frenchman only hope Britain was still within the realm of his help being enough. It would tear him up inside if his one mistake cost Britain a trip to the hospital. With surprising reserves of strength, the older nation lifted the Englishman up entirely into his arms and carried him out of the grocery store… leaving all the confusion and panic behind as he thought about the task that was now before him.

**Author's Note:**

**Well, a few people inquired about a sequel to "For the Sake of Friendship" and I had been toying with the idea myself, so here it is! Britain is my favorite character in Hetalia and I rather enjoy writing for him. In fact, call me crazy, but I have caught myself uttering "Bloody Hell" whenever I've been frustrated as of late *laugh* I've lived in America my whole life and haven't even visited both sides of the U.S. so forgive me if my knowledge of other countries is lacking somewhat. I try to research things I'm unfamiliar with to avoid complete ignorance, though I know nothing compares to actually getting to visit and experience another country or even another state for that matter. *laugh* Perhaps one day when I've saved up some funds I'll consider some traveling. Anyway, enough of my rambling! I certainly hope you enjoyed this first chapter and don't hate me too much for torturing poor Britain! This story has just begun and I, myself am not entirely sure how many chapters this will turn into. Reviews make me happy and See you all in Chapter 2. =D**


	2. De Ja Vu?

As he carried the unconscious Englishman away from the building, France's mind raced at a speed of one thousand thoughts a minute. He'd most definitely have to bring down Britain's fever. He could tell merely from the heat radiating off the younger nation that the fever must be rather high. The Frenchman shook his head to clear his thoughts. First things first, he had to get Britain inside the car… to do that he'd need the Englishman's keys. As this realization hit him, France paused and glanced around. Noticing a small wooden bench nearby, he wasted no time in reaching it. Carefully, he eased the British nation down on the bench into a loose sitting position. He sat down beside the unconscious Englishman, proceeding to turn his pockets inside out. He didn't much care if passersby came to the wrong conclusion; Britain needed his help and he had the full intent of providing him with it as swiftly as possible. At long last, the Frenchman's fingers closed around the younger man's key. With a brief victorious smile, France hastily found his way to Britain's car and unlocked the doors. Slipping the keys into his pocket, France sprinted back over to where Britain's unconscious form had slumped out over the bench. Once more he collected the other man into his arms and returned to the vehicle.

In moments, the English nation was safely placed in the back of the car. From the driver's seat, France adjusted the rearview mirror to get a better look at Britain, whom appeared to be dead to the world. Heaving a guilty sigh, France readjusted the mirror and began the drive back to Britain's house. Perhaps it was just his worried emotions, but France was certain the trip back took far longer than the ride to the super market.

As he pulled into the familiar driveway, France glanced back at his younger brother. Britain's bushy eyebrows were furrowed in discomfort. This came as no surprise, the Englishman's entire face spoke of illness. Indeed, from the darkness beneath his closed eyelids to the paleness of his complexion he simply did not look well at all.

"He looks absolutely horrible, I must get him inside" France said to himself sadly.

Recalling that the door was locked, the Frenchman temporarily abandoned the Englishman in favor of getting the door open so his task would be that much simpler. Hastily, the older nation returned to the vehicle to retrieve the ailing Brit. He carried the younger man inside, leaning his back against the door in order to close it. France imagined Britain would be most comfortable in his own bed. With that thought in mind, he carefully made his way up the stairs, heading for the master bedroom. Some small bit of luck appeared to be on France's side as the bedroom door was wide open, allowing him to pass through without pause.

He laid the sickly nation out atop the soft blankets of the Englishman's queen-sized bed. France carefully removed the other man's boots, setting them aside. Britain didn't so much as stir, clearly oblivious to all in his fevered state. Taking a minute to collect his thoughts, France stood to his full height and surveyed the room. He took note of a bathroom that was connected to the bedroom. While he could return to the lower level and search out a thermometer, he thought he might as well look while he was here. Peering into Britain's medicine cabinet, he found the object of his search.

"Britain, Mon Ami, you are a strange one, no?" the Frenchman wasn't entirely sure _why_ he was surprised. Britain carried enough medicine supplies for more than one person, was he expecting sick guests? Then again, being as vulnerable to sickness as Britain seemed to be, it didn't seem entirely crazy to have a well stocked supply.

France returned to the ill nation's side with the thermometer he'd found. He worked the thermometer into the Englishman's mouth gently. As he waited hesitantly for a reading, he sat on the edge of the younger nation's bed- praying that the fever wasn't as high as he thought.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

"_S'il vous plait… let him be alright_" France thought silently as he removed the thermometer.

The thermometer clearly read 105.0°F.

"Merde" France muttered to himself.

It didn't take a doctor to tell him that Britain's fever was entirely too high. Perhaps he should have allowed the clerk to call an ambulance... Knowing if he was going to help the other man he hadn't the time to wallow in regret, France came up with a plan of action. He had momentarily considered giving Britain the same cold shower treatment he'd gotten, but thought better of it. Britain was unconscious after all; he might inadvertently breathe in the water. Then it occurred to France, if he couldn't bring Britain to the water, he'd bring the water to Britain.

Normally, he would have made some perverted comment while stripping the younger nation of his clothing- even if it was only his top half. However, under the circumstances, France took no joy in the task… simply doing it to get it over with. Next, he fetched a large towel from the Englishman's bathroom and with some minor adjusting; he positioned it beneath the bare-chested Englishman. His plan playing vividly through his mind, the French nation dashed out of the room, down the flight of stairs, and into the kitchen. Thankfully, the items he required were not difficult to locate.

Filling a large cooking pot with a mix of freezing water and ice cubes, France took a firm grip on the pot's handles so he might carry it up the stairs. His arms were growing tired from the heavier-than-normal loads they had recently been baring and trembled slightly under the weight of the filled cooking pot. Nevertheless, he managed to lug the thing to the room without incident. Arms wobbling, the Frenchman hefted the pot up higher as he prepared for his next move. Though the urge to pour out the pot's contents in one swift motion was tempting, France maintained control and began to release the cold water in a steady flow over the Englishman's chest. As the freezing water and ice met the heated flesh of the ailing nation, Britain's eyes flew open "AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHH HHHHHH!" he cried out loudly.

Taking advantage of Britain's sudden consciousness, France began to stop pouring the mixture over the Englishman's chest in favor of his head.

Britain sputtered and coughed, as the cold water finally stopped flowing "B-bloody wanker… You're trying to k-kill me...aren't you?" his voice came weakly.

"Non… in fact just the opposite Mon Ami" France said.

Britain groaned and shut his eyes "Bloody hell… my head" he clutched his head tightly in his hands, burying his finger into his soaked hair.

"I'll get you some ibuprofen and then we'll get you dried off, no?" France said.

Britain barely heard him, focused solely on the intense pain that felt like it was crushing his brain from the inside out.

Worried that Britain might fall unconscious again soon, France wasted little time in retrieving a glass of water and medicine from the Englishman's bathroom. As he helped the younger nation to sit up, it was then that it clicked in Britain's mind.

"Y-you stripped me! You bloody pervert!" he stammered, illness dulling his words.

"Only your shirt, Mon Ami… it was for your own good" France said firmly, placing the medicine in the Brit's hand.

Once Britain had downed the medicine, France pulled the soaked towel from behind him. Luckily, it had prevented the bed from getting wet. His own efforts to control the water had largely kept everything below Britain's waist dry. This being the case, drying the sickly nation off became that much easier. Indeed, in what seemed like no time at all the Frenchman had not only finished drying Britain off, but had assisted him in getting his shirt back on.

Britain held his head as he remained in a shaky sitting position "H-how did I end up here?" he asked; eyes closed.

"What is the last thing you remember, Mon Cher?" France asked gently.

Britain offered a groan in response as he tried to recall. Everything seemed so very long ago and his head hurt so very badly. Slowly, however, it began to come back to him " I- I had this bloody headache from the moment I woke up…tried to read the paper…realized it was time to go shopping…"

France nodded "That's right Mon Ami. I went along with you, no?"

"Yes… yes I recall something of that nature" Britain grunted; eyes still clamped shut.

"You became delirious with fever and passed out." France said, masking the guilt in his voice "I took your keys and brought you home, Mon Cher"

Britain groaned loudly "Ooooh! Bloody hell!"

"What is it, Mon Ami?" France asked; his voice was full of concern.

"The groceries… I forgot the bloody groceries" Britain sighed in dismay.

France looked at him lamely, but let loose a small sigh of relief "The groceries? Really, Mon Cher?"

"I'm very nearly out… would have gone shopping last week" Britain shuddered "Though you know what happened." The Englishman dropped his arms to his sides and squinted open his eyes "I- I'd better go pick up the groceries."

"You are not serious, Mon Ami!" France said in disbelief.

"W-Why the bloody hell not?" Britain tried to sound offended, but only succeeded in portraying his weakness. He shakily pushed himself off the bed to stand, which was a rather bad idea. The world in front of him seemed to be rocking back and forth dangerously like a ship on stormy seas. Teetering where he stood, the Englishman tried to take a step forward, but his legs were heavy and awkward. He grasped his throbbing head as he felt himself falling backwards into a pair of arms. Dazed, Britain looked up at his rescuer.

Staring back at him was France, a look of grief in his blue eyes "Does that answer your question, Mon Cher?" he asked softly.

"I… I feel positively dreadful" the Englishman muttered, voice hardly a whisper.

"You are very sick, no?" France sighed, helping the younger nation into bed and under the covers. "You should rest, Mon Ami"

"But... but what about the groceries" Britain murmured, eyelashes fluttering.

"I can take care of that" France said firmly "Please, just rest Britain"

"Bloody Frog… you'll probably fill my fridge with your ridiculous French cuisine" the Englishman yawned.

"I promise, Britain. I will take care of the groceries. You just focus on getting well again, no?" France replied.

"Well… I suppose…" Britain's words came slowly, sleep threatening to claim him.

"Bonne Nuit, Mon Cher" France said softly as the Englishman drifted into the welcoming arms of slumber.

The Frenchman left the room silently so Britain might have some peace and quiet. There were plenty of things he ought to get done anyhow. He descended the stairway slowly as he turned over thoughts within his mind. Though he was hesitant to leave Britain alone, he had promised to get his groceries. He reasoned that now was probably the best time if he indeed was going to do it, seeing as the British nation was resting. Furthermore, if he completed the task swiftly, he could return before Britain would even notice his absence. However, if he were to enter the same super market so soon, he'd surely be questioned as to Britain's condition. A question that, he wasn't sure he could give a positive answer to. Deciding it best not to wander throughout London with hopes of simply stumbling upon another grocery store, France began a search for Britain's phone book.

Luckily for France, Britain kept his phonebook right next to the telephone. Leafing through the thick document, the Frenchman found the number and address of a nearby convenience store. Perhaps the store wouldn't carry everything that the Englishman needed to restock his fridge, but it would have to suffice for now. Taking a few minutes to memorize the address, France hurried out the door to Britain's car and left to fulfill the promise he'd made to his ailing friend.

Sadly, in his rush to be out the door, the Frenchman missed one crucial element. Indeed, had he merely waited but a minute longer; he would have been able to avoid the situation that now presented itself.

BRRRRRIINNNNNNG!

BRRRRIIIINNNG!

The telephone rang multiple times, but there was no one there to answer. After all, Britain was fast asleep and as such wasn't even aware that his phone was ringing.

At long last, the answering machine kicked in and an obnoxious voice spoke "_Hey British Dude! It's America! I'm in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by for a visit. I'll be at your place in a few minutes- so see you then, Yo!_" The American nation finished recording his message and silence once again filled the house. A silence that would soon be shattered.

**Author's Note:**

**So, a rather boring chapter in my opinion- sorry guys! Though in order for events to make sense, I didn't particularly want to jump around too much. Essentially, this chapter is very similar to some of the plot in the predecessor to this story (For the Sake of Friendship), but it was necessary to bring things to this point. I hope I haven't bored you all to tears! Ah well, things get interesting toward the end here. *evil laughter* It's a proven fact; you CANNOT have a sick Iggy without at least mentioning Alfred. That's right folks; America is coming into the story next chapter. Will he actually help poor Britain? Or will he accidentally make things worse? In either case, I don't think Britain is much up for hosting the obnoxious hero. I hope you all have enjoyed this chapter, regardless of its flaws, and I will see you in Chapter 3! P.S. Reviews make me happy and inspire me =)**


	3. Food for Thought

"We're nearing Mr. Britain's abode, sir" the cabbie stated from the driver's seat, glancing back at his passenger.

The man offered a childish grin, his blue eyes twinkling "Haha! Yep! I can't wait to see the look on Britain's face! He's gotta be like so surprised, yo!"

"If you could, sir, Please refrain from your street slang" the cabbie replied dryly.

"Aw enough calling me 'sir', I'm America!" the passenger said brightly.

"Yes…I know" the cabbie said flatly as he pulled into Britain's empty driveway "Here we are, sir"

"Aw man! It looks like Britain isn't home!" America complained.

The taxi driver forced a smile "Would you like to go anywhere else, sir?"

"Nah, it's cool! I'll wait for him to get back!" the American paid the cabbie his fare as he let himself out of the back seat.

"Thank Heavens" the cabbie muttered under his breath as he drove away.

America adjusted his glasses as he tried to think of how he might kill time whilst waiting for Britain's return. He supposed he could walk back a few miles to grab a bite to eat at the fast food diner he'd spotted, but he'd much rather do that with Britain. Though he'd never admit it, Britain was like a father to him in many ways. After all, the Englishman had raised him. Idly, the American grasped the doorknob of the house before him, giving it a soft twist. To America's great surprise, the door was unlocked and swung open. A grin twisted onto his face as he stepped inside; perhaps Britain really _was_ home and was simply trying to avoid him. The bespectacled man stepped inside, closing the door after him.

"BRITAIN! YOU HOME, DUDE?!" the American shouted.

Meanwhile, France was on his way to the convenience store, a nagging feeling kept tugging at his mind. He was sure he'd forgotten something, but he couldn't be sure of what it was exactly. He cursed under his breath as he came to the conclusion that he had forgotten to lock the door behind him when leaving Britain's. Perhaps he should turn back and fix his error? He pushed that thought away. That would make this trip take longer and that was the last thing the Frenchman desired. With a silent sigh he continued driving, consoling himself with the idea he wouldn't be gone long and could soon resume care of his younger brother.

Back at Britain's house, America found he got no response to his shouts. He blinked. Perhaps the old limey really didn't _want_ to be bothered. Then again, Britain never seemed like he wanted other people in his business. America nodded to himself, convinced that he would spend time with the Englishman, whether Britain liked it or not. Not finding the older nation on the main floor, America concluded he had to be upstairs. With that in mind, the self proclaimed hero pounded up the stairs; sounding very much like an elephant minus the trumpeting.

Britain awoke to the massive thumping sound that seemed to make his entire bedroom shake.

He closed his eyes tightly and groaned "Uggghhh, It's a bloody nightmare" he rasped.

He honestly hoped for an instant that he was merely hallucinating, that perhaps his fever was causing him to imagine an earthquake. Though a nagging sense of dread told him otherwise. His fears were confirmed as the bedroom door slammed open, and heavy footsteps began to grow closer.

"Hey Britain, dude, wake up! It's like afternoon, yo!" America said brightly.

Britain groaned "Bloody wanker… go away" he didn't open his eyes.

"No way, dude. I like totally took off the whole day to spend with you!" America insisted, yanking the blankets off of Britain.

His grin widened, this all fit together in his mind. Britain was wearing his _uniform_, his house had been _unlocked_, and clearly he'd _hidden_ his car. America was confident that this all meant that the English nation had attempted a hasty job of avoiding him. After all, if Britain truly _had_ been sleeping, he would have been in his pajamas.

The Englishman sat up, glowering at the American a moment before grabbing his head "Really America… I don't feel very well" he sighed.

"_Nice try, you Limey!_" America thought to himself. He was oblivious to the truth at the moment, focused solely on what he believed to be truth. "Come on, Britain! I'll treat you to that burger joint that I passed on the way here!"

The Englishman sighed in dismay, rocking slightly as he swung his legs slowly over the side of the bed and dragged on his boots. Perhaps if he walked America to the door he could muster enough strength to shove him out. He stood shakily and swayed "Bloody hell" he murmured.

"Aw knock off the act, Britain. I'm the hero and I guarantee you that we'll have a blast!" America said, grabbing a hold of the Englishman's arm and dragging him out.

Britain wanted to resist, but he didn't have the strength. Too lightheaded to so much as get his bearings, the Englishman surrendered to the fact that he'd have to let the American drag him along for the time being. He wasn't quite sure what America meant by him putting on an act, but at the moment he couldn't focus enough to think about it.

Fueled by his determination to hang out with the Brit, America dragged the older nation a couple miles away to the fast food restaurant. After all, he'd certainly lifted heavier things than his former caretaker. This task was painfully easy. He pulled the Englishman inside and let go of his wrist "Alright, what do you want? I'll buy anything you want on the menu."

Britain rubbed his temples as he leaned against a nearby trash receptacle for support. He kept his eyes closed to keep the world from spinning "I- I'm not hungry, Alfred" his voice was hoarse.

"Dude, it's America… don't use my human name that's too weird" America said.

"Sorry" Britain murmured flatly, as though he didn't mean it.

"No problem" the American said, undeterred "Now, what do you want for lunch?"

"N-nothing… bloody hell, nothing" the Englishman muttered, trying and failing to ease the pain in his throbbing head.

"Oh come on, Britain! Don't be so stubborn!" America snapped.

Britain winced, America's shouting sounded like a massive explosion ringing through his skull. He decided it was best not to argue, the bloody fool clearly couldn't see that he was sick. He supposed he couldn't entirely blame America, up until recent years the chap hadn't even known what a _cold_ was.

"Fine… I'll have a cup of tea" the Englishman managed "Can you order? I'd like very much to sit down"

"Yeah sure, I'll bring the food over, dude!" America grinned, seemingly happy to have won that round. He was so ecstatic that he didn't notice as his father figure staggered away.

Britain found his chest was beginning to feel a bit tight, a new symptom that he did not rejoice in. Shakily, he allowed his body to sink down onto the pleasantly cool plastic booth he'd chosen. He leaned his head back, eyes closed. All he really desired was to sleep. He wished desperately that he wasn't here in this situation that he found himself. Silently he prayed that France would somehow notice his disappearance and come find him, perhaps scold America, and… His thoughts were interrupted as he felt his chest grow tighter until he expelled a series of coughs from his lungs. He wasn't pleased to discover that he was having a hard time of it catching his breath. The Englishman shuddered and buried his face in his arms. He certainly hoped America would catch on soon. He felt absolutely horrid and didn't know just how long he would be able to hang onto consciousness. Indeed, the only thought that kept him from giving in was that if he were to pass out here, he might be very much alone with no one to rely on.

It was then that America approached the table, setting down a plastic tray and taking a seat across from the Englishman.

"Hey Britain, I got your tea!" he jabbed the older nation in the arm "You awake in there?"

Britain groaned and lifted his head slowly, grabbing the foam cup that held a poor excuse for tea. Fast food restaurants really ought to consider investing in some _real_ tea. He took a sip and closed his eyes in disgust. He had hoped the tea would help him, but this was of no use at all.

America took a big bite of the burger he'd ordered "You sure you don't want something to eat with that?"

The Englishman offered a groan in reply, holding his head.

It was then that America realized just how pale Britain was. He was sure he hadn't looked _this_ awful when he'd found him "Hey, y-you alright?" he asked the older nation nervously.

Britain's head lolled, as if he was fighting to stay awake. On closer inspection, America realized that the Englishman's breathing seemed labored.

"Oh man, you don't look so good." America said; fright dancing in his blue eyes as his earlier fantasies shattered into nothingness "Come on… I'll take you back home"

Britain looked up at him blearily, barely seeming to register that America was talking to him. He felt himself being lifted from his seat; his feet now touched the floor. He was surprised he wasn't wobbling, until he recognized a firm grip supporting him.

"I'm the hero… I promise I'll get you home, Britain" America said, now far more serious. With the Englishman braced against him, America began to guide the older man out of the restaurant as a steady rain began to fall.

France glanced out the window of Britain's home. "I made it back just in time, no?" he told himself as he noted the rain storm that had just begun. Carefully, he set down two large brown paper bags on the kitchen table. He was surprised at just how well stocked that convenience store had been! He would put away the groceries in a minute, but right now he felt it most important to check on Britain. Quietly, the French nation made his way up the stairs into the master bedroom. He flicked on the lights "Britain, how are you holding up, Mon Ami? Would you like some-" the Frenchman trailed off as he saw the empty bed. The sheets were thrown back in disarray and he felt a wave of concern sweep over him. Perhaps if it had been any other person, there would have been nothing to worry about. Britain, however, was a very particular man. He would _never_ leave his bed in such a mess.

Frantically, France called out "Britain! Britain! Are you here Mon Ami?!" He began to search the house thoroughly, continuing to call out. Britain, however, was nowhere to be found. The Frenchman sunk to his knees as tears streamed down his face "No…no… Arthur what happened to you?" His shoulders shook as he wept. He couldn't imagine Britain having moved under his own power, someone must have taken him. If that was the case… he'd never forgive himself if something happened to his younger brother.

Meanwhile, America was leading the Englishman back the way they'd come, though with much more care than he had on the trip there. He paused suddenly, as Britain jerked backwards and broke into a coughing fit. The older nation's entire body shook as the coughing continued. Rain poured down with a vengeance upon the two countries as America watched the older nation worriedly. As the coughing passed, Britain took in a few wheezing breaths and then collapsed to the pavement beneath them. Shocked, and perhaps a bit angry with himself for not catching the ailing nation, America scooped the Englishman into his arms and broke into a run. He had to get Britain home and out of this weather. He just _had_ to! Mentally, he berated himself for not noticing his father was sick. Why couldn't he be more observant like Canada?

The American sprinted through the rain as if the Englishman in his arms weighed no more than a feather. It wasn't long until he found himself on Britain's doorstep. Taking note of the Englishman's car in the parking lot, he assumed someone must be inside. He kicked at the door frantically, hoping someone would let him in.

Hearing the pounding at the front door, France wiped away his tears hurriedly and dashed for the door, swinging it open to find two very drenched nations. He stared in shock a moment at America. From the look on the young hero's face he was clearly just as surprised to see France.

"F-France? What are you doing here?" the American inquired.

France hastily found his tongue "Never mind that. Get inside, now. Now!" he ushered the younger man inside, shutting the door behind him. His gaze fell to Britain who not only was thoroughly soaked, but deathly pale. "Quickly, lay him on the sofa" he ordered America.

America silently placed the Englishman on the sofa and turned to France "I- I guess you could say this is all my fault. I wanted to hang out with Britain… I didn't realize he was so sick. I'm so stupid…"

France held up a hand, cutting him off "Enough la Amérique. You can explain later, right now Britain needs our help."

"Right. Sorry… if there's anything I can do to help..." America said, his usual cheeriness gone out of him.

France wanted very badly to yell. To tell the _stupid_ American that he'd 'helped' enough. However, he realized this wouldn't help the situation in the slightest and refrained "There is a thermometer on Britain's night stand, go get it"

"Right" America nodded and dashed off.

France proceeded to fetch a towel from the guest bathroom and made his best effort to dry off the ailing nation. As he held the Englishman close, his eyes widened in fear; realizing that Britain seemed to be struggling to breathe. Indeed, the Englishman's breaths were rather labored.

America returned with the thermometer promptly "Okay I got it."

France nodded and took the thermometer from the American, placing it gently in Britain's mouth.

"Anything else you want me to do?" America asked tonelessly, perhaps on the verge of tears.

"Just stay close… we may need to take action quickly, no?" France said, fighting back his own tears. As he saw it, this was entirely his fault.

BEEEEEEEP!

The thermometer sounded, sending a chill of dread down the Frenchman's spine. Still, he hadn't the time to hesitate, Britain really seemed bad off.

"Sacre Bleu!" France cried as he read the thermometer.

America glanced over his shoulder, clasping a hand over his own mouth in an effort not to cry "Th-that's really bad, huh?" he said, tears forming in his eyes.

The thermometer clearly read 106.3°F.

France nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat "Yes, that is very bad… I will go call an ambulance"

"W-What do I do?" America asked, voice cracking with emotion,

"Stay with him. Do not let him think for one moment he is alone" France said firmly, his back turned as he made his way over to the telephone. Dialing the infamous three digit number, France took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his nerves. The call rang through and a woman's voice came on the line.

"9-1-1… What's the emergency?"

"We need an ambulance… quickly! Arthur Kirkland… he is very sick. His fever is over 106 degrees Fahrenheit and he is struggling to breathe!" he shouted frantically to the woman.

"Calm down, please. I know it's hard. Take a deep breath" the woman said calmly.

France inhaled deeply "How can you ask me to calm down? Britain is unconscious with a deadly fever and he's hardly breathing! If you do not do something… he might... he might" his voice was cracking despite his best efforts to keep it from doing so.

"We'll dispatch an ambulance immediately" the woman said, her voice a bit more grave. Perhaps truly understanding the magnitude of the situation. "Could you please provide us with the street address?"

France relayed the information to her and then hung up the phone. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks. This wasn't supposed to be happening! He was supposed to be taking care of Britain. Some older brother _he_ was. Due to what seemed to be two simple mistakes on his part, Britain could be dying for all he knew. He felt like screaming. Why did this have to happen?!

**Author's Note:**

**America's quite simply a dopey airhead in this chapter. I do hope I didn't do too poorly. I can hear the criticism now! "Why did you have America drag Iggy around and then back in the rain? He arrived in a taxi! Couldn't he have called one?" Seeing as how annoyed the cabbie was that dropped him off, I don't know if he would have been able to get a ride even if he called for one. Besides, America has exhibited super human strength and that just needed to be shown off! Haha! I know; it's just a cheap excuse to torture poor Britain. Though those of you that asked for a sequel with a sick Iggy, I am delivering on that front =) I promise I won't kill Britain, but I certainly plan on torturing him further, as well as tormenting France emotionally. Ah, the glorious chaos that is character and story development! Stay tuned for chapter 4! Reviews make me happy! =)**


	4. Feelings and Decisions

The past few hours had been a blur. France wasn't entirely sure how he'd managed to compose himself for the time being. The ambulance had arrived moments after he'd hung up the phone. He recalled tossing Britain's keys to America and then joining the paramedics and unconscious Englishman in the ambulance. He remembered the feeling that a part of his heart was being torn as he watched them roll Britain away behind Emergency Room doors. He also recalled that he'd somehow managed to fill out Britain's medical paperwork. The Frenchman heaved a sigh, so much had happened since then and now all he could do was sit here in the waiting room… praying that his little brother would be okay. France felt a hand on his shoulder that roused him from his musings. The Frenchman flinched in response and glanced up in time to see America taking a seat beside him.

"Dude… I feel so guilty." The American sighed sadly.

"_You should!_" France wanted to snap, but instead he studied the younger nation. America's eyes were glossy and rimmed with the redness that could only come from crying. His usual child-like grin had been replaced by a frown. Though France imagined that he himself must not look all that different.

"Britain's in the hospital and it's all my fault! I should have paid closer attention…" America went on.

The Frenchman's heart softened at those words and he fought back his own tears "Actually Mon Ami… I am just as much to blame as you are" he sighed.

"What do you mean? From the looks of it you were there to help Britain! I made things worse because I thought he was faking it and I took him out to eat anyway." America said; a bit confused.

"Oui. I will not deny you made things worse" France bit his lip "However… a part of all this is my fault. You see, I knew he was sick, but rather than making him rest I allowed him to keep his dignity when he wasn't doing so bad..." France trailed off a moment, not about to give America a full story he might use for blackmail later "I lost sight of Britain for a short while because of my own stupidity… I have a feeling that if I had kept my eye on him, things would not have ended up like this"

"At least you could tell he was sick" was America's reply.

"Oui… but that is because I recognized the symptoms he started with. When I had gotten sick… it started the same way." France said.

"No way! You got sick Frenchy dude?!" America said in surprise.

France shot him a glance of annoyance, but nodded "Oui, at the last meeting I was not feeling well. Britain took me home with him and tended to me…that is how he got sick, no?"

The younger man blinked "I had no idea. I thought you dudes hated each other."

"Non. It was never hatred..." France smiled sadly "We may have fought countless times… but it was always as brothers."

America slowly gained a goofy grin "I can totally blackmail you now! I can't believe you admitted that to me! How stupid can you get?"

France chuckled lightly, surprising the American. "Not so fast la Amérique" he waggled a finger "You have your own feelings for Britain, no?"

The self proclaimed hero seemed taken aback "N-no way! I'm just here because I felt bad the jerky limey is sick… that's all!"

"Really, Mon Ami?" France now wore a bemused smile on his face "Because if I had to guess, I'd say you saw Britain as a father. Why else would you be so determined to spend time with someone you had rebelled against?"

"Hey! You helped with that rebellion!" America said defensively.

"Oui… but not as an act of hatred. You were a teenager who wanted the freedom to make his own choices… a teenager that was being held down by an over-protective _father_. I simply helped you get that freedom not only for your own sake… but to teach Britain that he could not hold onto you forever." France said.

America was quiet a long moment before he spoke again "…Okay… you got me. I do see Britain as my father and seeing him this sick really has me scared. He always took such good care of me when I was little… even if he couldn't always be around; he made sure I had everything I needed… Even after I rebelled against him, I never stopped seeing him as a father."

The Frenchman smiled softly "And he has never ceased to see you as his son, la Amérique… though he will never admit it, no?"

America took a deep breath and then looked France in the eyes "Anyway, don't tell anyone I admitted this or I'll have to kill you"

France laughed lightly "Very well, but only if you do not speak of mine and Britain's brotherly relationship… it is too much fun to argue"

"Sounds fair I guess" the American nodded.

Suddenly, the Emergency Room doors opened and a nurse stepped through, approaching the Frenchman and American.

"Francis Bonnefoy?" the nurse questioned.

"Oui" France nodded.

"You are the one who accompanied Arthur Kirkland, correct?" she verified.

"Oui, that is me. Is he alright?" the Frenchman inquired.

"He is currently hooked up to an oxygen mask and we've administered an IV through which we've provided him with fever reduction medication. We plan to keep him overnight for monitoring, if he shows significant progress by morning we will release him into your care." The nurse said.

"And if not?" France asked.

"Then he might very well be our guest for a few days" the nurse said firmly.

"I see… Merci Mademoiselle" France said.

The nurse nodded and turned to go. France watched her rear for a moment before looking away. He just wasn't in the mood right now. There was a long awkward silence that followed as both men simply sat there in thought.

Finally, America stood to his feet and headed for the door.

"Where are you going… la Amérique?" France asked, mildly curious.

"To get some fresh air… maybe I'll call Canada on my cell phone too" the American said as he headed outside the automatic doors.

France watched the young man leave and then sighed, closing his eyes. While it had felt surprisingly good to talk to America, he still felt incredibly guilty over this whole ordeal. When he had been sick, Britain had been incredibly attentive… he hadn't left his side until he'd seen major improvements. The Englishman had easily nursed him back to health. France wasn't sure why he was having such a hard time now that the roles were reversed. After all France was _older_. Wasn't he supposed to be wiser then? Why had he allowed his own stupidity to get in the way? It was sickening to think Britain was this ill and all because he couldn't be as caring as the British nation had been for him. He wasn't even sure he could look at another woman again! Well, perhaps that was going a bit too far, but for the time being anyway he'd have to be strong. The Frenchman would do his very hardest to oppress his instincts. If he didn't, he was scared to think what his next mistake might cause Britain. After all, two seemingly trivial mistakes had brought him this far.

France wasn't sure how long he'd been mulling things over, only that now America had returned to the chair beside him. He didn't even have to open his eyes; he could tell it was the younger nation that had returned. America was being silent… he probably thought the Frenchman was asleep.

"So how did your talk with Canada go?" France asked finally, looking at America.

"It went good… he said he hopes Britain feels better. He also told me to say hi to you" the American said.

The Frenchman smiled lightly at that, but said no more.

"So...Uh… were you taking a nap?" America asked, perhaps a bit uncomfortable with the silence.

"Non" France said simply, he needn't tell the self proclaimed hero any more than that.

"Oh" America said, biting his lip. This silence was so awkward, yet for once in his life he was at a loss for what to say. What was left to be said right now? It's not like anything he could say would make Britain well again.

Hours passed by and the darkness that encompassed the world outside the glass hospital doors spoke of how very late it was getting. America had since surrendered to the idea of not having anything to talk about and was idly tracing his index finger in figure eights over his pant leg. France on the other hand, was still as a statue. The Frenchman leaned with his elbow on the chair's arm, his hand tucked under his chin as he stared sadly into space.

Noticing the pair, a nurse took pity on them and approached "The visiting hours are over, good sirs. If you should like you may go home for the night. You can return around nine o' clock in the morning… when visiting hours start back up."

"Non… I abandoned him twice and that was a big mistake… I cannot leave him again." France said.

The nurse blinked, she couldn't fully understand exactly what the Frenchman meant by that "Are you positive, sir? We have the finest doctors and medical staff readily available… Nothing will happen that we can't handle, I assure you"

France offered her a sad smile "Forgive me, Mademoiselle. However, I simply cannot bring myself to leave."

"Same goes for me!" America chimed in "I'm not going home until I know that jerk is okay!"

The nurse blinked, but smiled gently "I see. That being the case, could I interest either of you in some tea… perhaps coffee?"

"Oui… some tea would be nice" the Frenchman nodded.

"Coffee for me, tea's totally not my thing" America added.

With a nod the nurse walked off to fulfill their requests.

France now turned to the American country beside him "La Amérique... may I ask you something?"

"Yeah, go ahead Frenchy!" the American grinned slowly, perhaps glad that their silence had been broken.

"Why do you feel the need to stay? I promise to let you know how Britain is doing." France said.

"I could leave, but that's why I won't." America said.

"That makes no sense, Stupid American!" France snapped before he could stop himself.

The American shook his head "It was a selfish choice on my part that ended up making things worse. If I choose the simple, selfish way out of this… it just makes me look like a total jerk-face. I want to be there when the limey wakes up… and tell him I'm sorry."

The Frenchman smiled softly "I see."

The remainder of the night dragged on in silence that was only interrupted by the occasional emergency that was whisked by. The commotion would last a few minutes and die down again… as if nothing had happened at all. As the sun's rays glinted in through the windows, it only served as a reminder to just how long the nations had been waiting.

France glanced over to his right; somehow America had managed to fall asleep within the past hour or so. For a moment he regarded the young nation jealously, wishing for an instant that sleep had come to him so easily. The feeling quickly passed, however. The Frenchman simply had too much on his mind and sleeping ranked low on his list as of the current. Most importantly, he wanted…no…_needed_ to know that Britain was alright. They'd kept him under observation for a reason, after all, and France couldn't help but feel nervous. His younger brother had looked on the brink of death less than twenty four hours ago, an image that had stayed fresh in the French nation's mind. Habitually, he glanced at the clock on the wall… something he had been doing at the very least every half hour.

It was 8:30 AM… he just had to wait thirty more minutes before he could see the Englishman. He could feel his heart racing in a multitude of worried emotions and took a deep breath. How would Britain look? Would he appear worse off? He wasn't sure he could handle that…

"_S'il vous plait let him be feeling better… let all this worrying be for nothing_" France prayed silently.

Meanwhile, Britain opened his eyes blearily, taking in his surroundings. He was not at home… that much was certain. In fact, he hadn't the slightest idea where he was. Slowly, his eyes drifted to a thin metal pole that stood by his bedside. Upon it hung a bag of intravenous fluids that was connected to a thin tube line. He followed the line with his gaze, coming to the realization that it was connected to his arm… why hadn't he noticed that before? He took a deep breath, becoming aware that not only was breathing easier than he'd last recalled, but also much louder. Confused, the Englishman lifted a hand to his face, tracing over the shape of the mask that now covered his mouth and nose… just how sick had he gotten? There was no mistaking it, he was in the hospital… but how on Earth did he manage to get here?

It was then that someone in a long, white lab coat entered the room. It was a woman; that much was clear. Her hair was tinged with grey and she peered at him from beneath a pair of thick glasses. Her gaze was firm, yet somehow kind… perhaps a testament to her experience in the medical field. She _had_ to be the doctor, Britain decided.

As if to confirm his theory, the woman spoke "Ah, good, you're awake then. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Doctor Meredith Jamison."

"A pleasure" Britain said dryly.

The doctor smiled and glanced over a clipboard in her hands "You were sporting quite the fever last night. And your breathing…" she shook her head "You ought to take better care of yourself." She scolded "If your friends hadn't had you rushed in here, things might have not turned out in your favor."

"W-what?" the Englishman murmured. He sifted through his hazy memories as his head punished him for the effort… the last thing he recalled he'd been at some fast food establishment with America…

"Who had me brought in?" he asked weakly.

The doctor glanced back over her information "Francis Bonnefoy… if that means anything to you."

The Englishman clasped a hand over his eyes in an attempt to try and piece everything together. Though he wasn't entirely sure how, France had managed to come to his aid. He felt a twinge of guilt at this realization, how much worry must he have caused his older brother? From the information given him, Britain could safely assume he'd been in a dreadful state last night… so dreadful that he hadn't the faintest recollection of it all.

"Bloody hell" he murmured.

"Thankfully, we were able to treat you quickly enough and your condition has stabilized for the time being. We have managed to bring your fever down to One hundred and Three degrees Fahrenheit. Additionally, I'm sure you've noticed the mask that adorns your face that has assisted in regulating your breathing… However..." the doctor paused.

The Englishman removed the hand from his eyes to look at the doctor; she had to have paused for a reason.

"Despite the fact your condition is currently stable; I must strongly suggest that you plan on remaining our guest for a while longer. You see, Arthur Kirkland, you have been dealing with a severe case of Influenza-" The doctor was cut off by a short cough that was meant to be a bitter laugh.

"The Flu then? I've let a bloody flu drag me down? How utterly ridiculous" the Englishman croaked.

The doctor shook her head "Influenza is often underestimated in modern society. While it is not nearly as deadly as it was long ago, there are still multiple cases each year in which patients experience severe symptoms that require hospitalization... an even smaller percentage of these cases end in death." She said, frowning.

Britain was silent, permitting the woman to speak.

"Even if it is a remote possibility that your condition will worsen, based on your constitution last night, I believe it would be best to air on the side of caution. Though I cannot force you to stay, I certainly hope you will consider my words."

The Englishman sighed "And if I choose to go home?"

"I will have to insist that you permit someone to nurse you back to health… you most certainly should not be left alone. I will also provide you with a nasal cannula and a portable oxygen generator. You are to use this for the days to come without fail… Should your condition worsen, I urge you to return immediately." The doctor said firmly.

Either way, Britain was sure France would be involved… and possibly America… if he indeed hadn't imagined the chap coming to visit. He was faced with deciding which was the lesser of two evils. He supposed it would be the smarter decision to stay… but all he could think about was France. Surely his older brother must be on the verge of a heart attack by now. Britain was fairly certain that if the Frenchman were to see him like this, he'd be absolutely devastated. Deciding that he'd caused the older nation enough worry in the past 24 hours, the Englishman heaved a sigh… his mind made up "If you'd be so kind… I'd like to go home. I've had just about enough fussing over my health."

Dr. Jamison nodded curtly "Very well. I only hope you've made a wise decision."

**Author's Note: And so the story continues in a rather boring chapter in comparison to the last one. Britain almost didn't appear in this chapter! (Oh my!) I seriously considered cutting the chapter right after France's morning thoughts. However, as I wrote, I felt compelled to continue. Thus causing the chapter to become the lengthy one you have just finished reading. *laugh* Not much torture in this chapter, but poor Britain needed a little break seeing as all he went through in the last chapter. Furthermore, Hooray for random OCs created on the spot! One of which actually gets a name! 0.o What could that **_**possibly**_** mean? Stay tuned for chapter 5 =) Reviews make me happy!**


	5. Home Sweet Home

Hushed voices spoke in the hallway, mere feet from the door of the room in which he lay. Britain supposed the doctor was giving France detailed instructions on the care he was to receive after he had been discharged. The Englishman worked as hastily as he could to pry the oxygen mask from his face… he didn't want _anyone_ to see him like that. Lord knows he probably looked ten times more ill with that bloody contraption over his face. Sure he _felt_ awful, but he didn't have to look the part. Suddenly, the air became heavier, his chest grew tighter, and Britain became aware of a slight rattling to his breaths.

"_That isn't very encouraging_" he thought to himself dryly. Still, for now he decided it was better than wearing that bloody mask. He took in a deep shaky breath which didn't agree with him as he broke into a coughing fit. The Englishman tried desperately to cover his coughs, but knew it was to little avail. He abandoned the effort of concealing them in favor of simply attempting to regain his breath. Panting heavily, he managed to fill his lungs once more with air and leaned back against the pillow, closing his eyes in an effort to relax.

The door creaked open, causing Britain's eyes to flutter open instantly as two figures stepped inside.

"Britain! Are you okay?!" an obnoxious voice shouted. His vision did not deceive him; America was indeed in his room. France was only a few steps behind the self proclaimed hero.

"While I have been better… I'm perfectly fine" the Englishman replied, his voice came weaker and raspier than he would have liked.

France quickly spotted the discarded oxygen mask and his lips formed a thin line. With a sigh, he looked Britain in the eyes "You should be wearing that right now, no?" he gestured to the mask.

America gasped "Oh my gosh! You took off your mask? How are you breathing?!"

"I can breathe just fine on my own! You…bloody… git!" he struggled through his words as another wave of coughing threatened to push its way through. As he unwillingly began to expel the precious oxygen from his lungs, a pair of hands brushed by his cheeks – slipping the oxygen mask back into place. Slowly, the coughing subsided and breathing became a bit less of a chore. The Englishman found himself glancing up at two incredibly worried nations.

America looked on the verge of tears and cried out "Britain! Britain I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make you this sick! Pleeeease don't die dude! That wouldn't be cool!"

His first instinct was to scold America for such a childish outburst, but his heart softened. If it hadn't been clear before, it certainly was plain now that he had been in a terrible state last night. Not only did France's face speak of grief, but the usually carefree America was riddled with guilt. It made the Englishman's heart ache to think of all the worry he'd caused them. He sighed softly "I am going to be alright, please don't worry… Why, I'll be right as rain before you know it."

"Y-yeah... that's right. And then we'll go out to eat together" America said, hope rising in his voice.

"Yes… yes, I believe that will be in order" Britain offered a weak smile.

It wasn't much longer before all documents had been completed and Britain was ready for discharge. It had been decided America would return to the United States as his hyperactivity didn't seem like it would speed along Britain's recovery. Luckily for France, he remembered that the self proclaimed hero still held Britain's keys. He had made a point of retrieving them before the younger nation could leave. It occurred to him he wasn't sure just how America planned to get to the airport. However, the younger nation had seemed confident enough that he wouldn't need a ride. France pushed that thought away and focused on the task before him. Currently, the Frenchman found himself guiding a wheelchair down the hall. Though the wheelchair's occupant looked less than enthralled, no complaints came.

Britain felt rather humiliated as he stared at the portable oxygen generator in his lap. The oxygen mask had been replaced by the nasal cannula that Dr. Jamison had spoken of. Though the Englishman wasn't entirely comfortable with the prongs that now rested in each of his nostrils, he supposed it was better than that clunky oxygen mask. He hated feeling so helpless and weak, but there was little he could do about it. Soon he was being loaded into the front passenger's seat of his own car. He wanted so desperately to protest, but managed to resist.

When they were on their way down the road, France finally spoke "I hope you can forgive me, Mon Ami"

Britain blinked in surprise "What for, Frog?"

The Frenchman sighed, eyes never leaving the road in front of him "For not taking proper care of you. I am a horrible brother."

"What on Earth are you talking about? You could have bloody well saved my life last night by having me taken to the hospital." Britain said.

France shook his head "Maybe so, but you would not have needed to go if I had just kept an eye on you. If I had not been careless…" he trailed off.

"I'm having a hard time seeing what you've done as careless, Frog. So please… indulge me." Britain said.

"From the moment you complained of a headache… I knew you were sick Mon Ami. I didn't tell you in favor of preserving your stupid pride. Then at the grocery store... I let my hormones get the best of me… by the time I found you; you were delirious with fever and soon fell unconscious" France took a deep breath "Even after I got you back to your home to take care of you… I still couldn't do anything right. I went out to get your groceries as promised… but was careless and left the door unlocked… inviting that stupid American to waltz right in and make everything worse."

Britain felt helpless against the Frenchman's words. How could he make this situation any better? He couldn't magically snap his fingers and… could he? He shook his head; that was the fever talking. He searched his hazy mind for a bit of that British wit he was oh so famous for. Slowly, he found his words "You're right then, old chap. This is all bloody well your fault. Not only did I get sick because of you, but you made it worse like the stupid frog you are"

France felt like the Englishman had knocked the wind out of him and inhaled deeply, trying not to break down.

"And while you're busy making my life miserable… riddle me this" Britain paused to be sure he had the Frenchman's attention.

"W-what?" France asked, biting his lip as he tried very hard to keep from tearing up.

"How can you prove that this is all your fault, hm?" Britain inquired.

"I told you Mon Ami-"France began, but the Englishman cut him off.

"Not so fast there, Frog. What you have done is merely assumed. Do you have any proof that none of this would have happened regardless? If you have any proof whatsoever, let's see it shall we?" Britain went on, his voice was growing weaker with each syllable, but that didn't stop him.

"Well… I have no proof, however-" France tried, but again found himself cut short.

"Then please… stop blaming yourself. I know it hurts you to see me like this… but you know what hurts me?" Britain asked, taking in a raspy breath.

"Britain-" France said softly.

The Englishman ignored him for the moment "What hurts me is knowing that I've caused you so much grief. I'm not asking you to be a wanker that rejoices in my sickness, but try not to be so hard on yourself… please" he pleaded, studying the Frenchman.

France felt a tear slip down his cheek and he glanced briefly over to the Englishman "I'm sorry... Mon Cher. I just feel as though I've failed you. Older brothers are supposed to be wiser; they are supposed to look out for their younger brothers."

"Older brothers are allowed to make mistakes too, you realize that don't you? Now you can either learn from them, or you can wallow in self pity… really it's your choice." Britain said, leaning his head back against the seat and closing his eyes.

France chuckled in spite of himself and shook his head "You certainly have a way with words, Britain"

"But of course" Britain tried and failed to hold back a series of coughs.

When his coughing had ceased, Britain took note they were pulling into his driveway. France turned to the Englishman "Before we get you inside, I will ask one thing of you, Mon Ami."

"What would that be?" Britain asked tiredly.

"You need to stop speaking for now… it is only going to aggravate your throat and make you cough more. There are the obvious exceptions, but if you can help it, keep your mouth shut." The Frenchman said.

The Englishman seemed faintly annoyed, but nodded his head slightly. He would comply for now.

Satisfied, France got out of the vehicle and approached the passenger's side. Opening the door, the Frenchman helped the younger nation step out of the vehicle. In one swift motion, France took hold of the portable oxygen generator and braced the Englishman against his side. There was no way he was letting Britain carry that when the ailing nation struggled to so much as stand. In an effort not to be dead weight, Britain did his best to support as much of his own weight as he possibly could. France was impressively gentle as he guided him up the stairs into the comfort of his own house.

"You ready to attempt the stairs?" France asked, simply concerned if Britain could make it.

He gained a soft nod as his answer. So long as he had France to support him, Britain felt he would be able to make it safely to his room.

Reaffirming his grip on the Englishman, France began to guide Britain up the stairs. Taking one step at a time, the two nations slowly ascended the staircase to the Englishman's room. The Frenchman eased his companion down onto the bed and then began rummaging through his dresser.

From his spot on the bed, Britain eyed the older man "What in bloody hell are you doing, Frog?" he croaked.

France held up a finger "Ah ah ah! I said no talking, Mon Cher!"

"But you're-" Britain's protest was cut off.

"No buts! I will find you some pajamas to change into, no?" France said, a smirk falling upon his lips.

"Pervert" Britain grumbled quietly, though he was more annoyed with France than accusing him of anything.

The Frenchman decided to humor him "Oh Hon Hon"

Britain arched an eyebrow, but said no more.

Finally, France pulled out a pair of mint green pajamas and set them beside Britain on the bed "How many pairs just like this do you have, Mon Ami?"

Britain narrowed his eyes a moment, causing the Frenchman to chuckle.

"Alright Britain, I will leave you to change into your pajamas." France said "I shall return with some medicine and some tea, no?"

The Englishman waited to hear France's footsteps fade away from the door before he began the struggle of changing. While he was certainly glad France hadn't offered to 'assist' him in the matter, he did wish he had an extra pair of hands to make this easier.

"Ms. Fairy… Do you think you could-" he caught himself in mid- sentence. If France heard him talking like that he'd think was delirious again. Best not seek out help from his magical friends right now. This was taking longer than it had any right to, and Britain felt a sense of accomplishment upon completing the task. He'd even managed to fold his uniform- albeit a little sloppily. The Englishman heaved a sigh and leaned back against the familiar pillows of his queen-sized bed.

"_You truly are pathetic_" he told himself "_How can you be tired from just changing your clothes, old chap?"_

France had found a small silver tea tray that he placed two cups of tea and a bottle of ibuprofen on. He had to admit, the medicine looked tacky in comparison to the delicate porcelain of the teacups. Feeling the need to fix this, he retrieved a pair of tablets from the bottle and placed them in a shot glass on the tray. He supposed that looked a _little_ better. He supposed now was not the time to worry about details, but he was stalling for Britain's sake. He hoped Britain would be able to rest well enough.

"_If Britain was a sound sleeper, then that stupid American may not have dragged him out_" France mused. It was then that an idea occurred to him. There was no harm in ensuring that Britain would get the rest he needed to recover! The Frenchman made his way to the guest bathroom and peered into the medicine cabinet. As he'd suspected! Britain indeed had sleeping drops. Then again, it seemed Britain stocked up enough medicine to run a small pharmacy. He grasped the bottle in question and returned to the kitchen to lace Britain's tea. He made sure to read the instructions for fear of making the Englishman more ill than he already was.

Moments later, the Frenchman balanced the tray up the stairs. He'd been sure to make his cup of tea exactly like Britain's- with a dash of milk. The only difference was invisible to the eye. Thankfully, France had paid attention to which cup he'd put the sleeping drops in. Now all he had to do is get Britain to drink it. He carefully balanced the tray on one hand as he lightly rapped at the door. Receiving no protests, the Frenchman opened the door and carried the tea tray over to Britain.

"I thought I would enjoy some tea as well, no?" France said, sitting on the edge of the Englishman's bed.

The younger nation looked over the cups of tea with a critical eye.

"Do not worry, it is not instant" France said, earning a sour face from Britain. With a satisfied smirk, the Frenchman held out a cup of tea to Britain "Here you are, now take your medicine."

"Yes Mumsy" Britain said sarcastically, pointedly taking the cup of tea that was still on the tray.

"Non! Not that one!" France blurted before he could find a more tactful way to put it.

The Englishman arched an eyebrow "And why the bloody hell not?" his voice was raspy, but agitated.

"It is… because I made that one without enough milk!" the Frenchman berated himself for the lame excuse "You will not like it, Mon Ami"

"I think I'll manage" Britain huffed and with that took the cup of tea, washing down the medicine. The warm tea felt wonderful to his sore throat and he sighed contentedly as he took another sip "I haven't the faintest what you were talking about, this is wonderful."

France was trying very hard not to seem a little agitated; after all he now held the laced tea in his own hand. He supposed it would look awkward, him sitting there without so much as taking a sip "Oh, is it good, Mon Ami? I was under the impression you liked more milk than that."

"Yes, it's quite nice" Britain said quietly. It may not have been perfect, but it was certainly the best thing he'd tasted in the past twenty four hours. For a few minutes there was silence as the ill Englishman simply enjoyed his cup of tea. Finally, he looked at France "Why aren't you drinking your tea? What did you poison that cup and intend it for me?" he joked, a few coughs escaping his lips.

There was a short period of silence.

"You should really stop talking, Britain… You'll go into one of those coughing fits again." France said.

"Don't… change the…subject, Frog" the Englishman attempted to hold back a series of coughs, but failed miserably.

The Frenchman watched him worriedly "Please Britain, stop talking. How many times must I tell you?"

As the coughing subsided, the Englishman looked incredibly weary, but managed to narrow his eyes at France "There _is_ something in that tea… _isn't_ there?" his voice was incredibly hoarse, but still conveyed his feeling of mistrust.

The older nation knew he had to pick one of two options- either lie through his teeth, or tell Britain the truth and hope to God he understood his reasoning. France chose the former option, though with the style commonly known as 'stretching the truth'.

The Frenchman heaved a sigh and looked Britain in the eyes "Non. I am sorry if that is the impression that you got. I am just a bit tired and how you say? Stressed over this entire issue... I suppose I thought it would be a nice gesture to talk over tea… but truth be told I am not in the mood."

The Englishman's gaze softened and he leaned back against his pillows "I think I'd best go to sleep anyway… I won't be any trouble if you want to catch a quick nap." He said tiredly. Now that France mentioned it, he did look awfully tired and Britain hated the idea of all the trouble he'd been causing as of late.

"Merci, but no I will not" France said firmly "You are very sick and this time I intend to keep an eye on you. I am not repeating the mistakes I have already made."

"Then try the tea… it will help" Britain murmured, eyelids growing heavy.

"Non" France replied, perhaps a bit too firmly.

The Englishman's eyes closed only to flutter open again "Then... what'd you bloody… make it for?" his voice was drifty as he inched closer to sleep.

France didn't reply, hoping his younger brother would fall asleep and he could avoid the issue.

However, Britain's voice pierced the silence once more in a tone that could barely even be called a whisper "Just... drink… it… already… you wanker"

The Frenchman was stuck, if he kept refusing- Britain would probably become more alert and perhaps accuse him again. The last thing he wanted at a time like this was to break Britain's trust. He reasoned that since he was a healthy, strong, Frenchman his willpower would be strong enough to aid him in avoiding the effects of the sleeping drops he'd put in the tea. Before good sense could talk him out of it, France gulped down the tea "There, are you satisfied, Mon Ami?" he asked.

"Perhaps" Britain murmured and was asleep within moments.

The Frenchman checked over the oxygen generator and nasal cannula tubes carefully, inspecting them for any faults. Satisfied that it was in perfect working order, the Frenchman carried the tea tray and cups down the stairs and set them aside to be washed later. He was about to head back up the stairs when he eyed the two tall, paper grocery bags sitting on the kitchen table. He decided it was best to put them away quickly before they should spoil- if they hadn't already. After putting the food items away, France chose a book from Britain's living room and headed back up the stairs. He was starting to really notice how tired and emotionally drained he felt after all that had recently taken place. He refused to admit that it had anything to do with the sleeping drops in the tea that he'd drunken. However, he figured it couldn't hurt to try and wake himself up with an adventurous novel. The Frenchman sat on the edge of the Englishman's bed and began to read.

**Author's Note: Another boring chapter! Yaaaaaaaaay! Actually, I like this chapter if you don't mind me saying so. No, I'm not bragging about my writing skills- I'm too shy for something like that *laugh* This chapter is fairly light on the torture too, I suppose. However, how is Iggy going to leave the hospital if he's a shade worse than death, hm? Furthermore- SLEEPING DROPS! Yes, I believe you can guess what will happen to our dear Frenchman next chapter *wink* Poor Francy Pants has been on an emotional roller coaster watching his younger brother's health decline despite his best efforts- he deserves a power nap! Meanwhile, what will our poor ill Brit do fending for himself? Tune in next time for Chapter 6 =) Holy Cow, it's like I'm trying to write a book or something! Is that how much I like to torture poor Iggy? Reviews make me happy!**


	6. Black Magic

He'd been on the same page for the past ten minutes. Both hands gripped either side of the book as if he were reading intently. The Frenchman, however, was no longer paying any mind to the book in his lap. Indeed, his head was bobbing up and down as he fought to stay awake. It had been an hour since he'd drunk the laced tea. Were he not so tired, France would have mused about how ironic this was. Instead of lulling Britain into a pleasant slumber, the sleeping drops were now in _his_ system, pulling _him_ away from the world of the wakeful. Despite his best efforts, the Frenchman was starting to doze off. The French nation fought to stay conscious, but in the end his exhaustion reigned supreme. As sleep finally claimed him, the Frenchman fell off the bed with a soft thump and sprawled out on the floor.

A few hours passed by, both nations oblivious to the world. The seemingly eternal silence was only shattered when a wave of coughs overtook Britain, rousing him from his much needed slumber. The Englishman coughed and sputtered, wheezing to regain his breath. He faintly wondered just how much good the nasal cannula was doing him. Upon regaining his breath, Britain shuddered and put a hand to his brow… though he couldn't be sure, he was fairly certain his fever had risen again. A chill running through his being seemed to confirm the theory. Blearily, he reached for a small clock on his nightstand and held it a few inches from his face. It was four in the afternoon.

His head pounded as he processed the thought "_Time for more medicine I suppose_"

As that thought entered his head, the Englishman's eyes widened and he pushed himself into a shaky sitting position. Where was France? The way the Frenchman had been talking, Britain was sure he would have stayed to watch over him. Moreover, France was sure to notice that he was in need of more medicine. He scanned the room with a gaze, his eyes falling on the body strewn across the floor beside his bed. The Englishman's heart skipped a beat as worry suddenly flooded into him. Was France okay?!

"Bloody Hell" Britain groaned. He moved to get off the bed, but found himself tangled in the tubes that ran from the oxygen generator and into his nostrils. Not wanting to struggle with the mess, the Englishman hastily removed the contraption so he might move free of restriction. He once more became aware of how heavy his chest felt, but pushed past it- France might be in trouble! Even if he was quite ill himself, Britain didn't see this as something he could simply ignore. He dragged himself off the bed slowly to sit on the floor by the Frenchman. Panting heavily, the Englishman set about assessing the situation. France was breathing regularly, that was good at least… in fact he was… _snoring_.

"_You mean to bloody tell me he's sleeping? The git!_" Britain thought to himself, though he was relieved that nothing was wrong. The temporary adrenaline of worry faded away and the Englishman looked helplessly up at his bed. He wasn't sure he had the energy to get back up there. Perhaps he should stay where he was… He felt his vision moving further and further out of focus and realized just how difficult it had become to breathe. An immense chill made him crumple on the floor and his eyes slipped shut. He could feel his body shudder, feel the rattle of his breaths, but somehow he didn't feel connected to that anymore… as if the world were slipping away.

"_Tee hee, Britain wake up_" a cheery little voice echoed through his mind.

Dulled green eyes fluttered open to be greeted by a tiny female with delicate wings "Ms. Fairy" he murmured "I feel so weak"

"_I know, Britain… But I know how to cure you!_" the fairy said with a smile.

"You do?" the Englishman muttered breathlessly.

"_Yes. You have to use your magic… you have to try a spell_" the fairy told him.

"Yes… yes that makes sense" Britain said hoarsely.

Completely delusional, the Englishman followed the fairy out of his room. Crawling on hands and knees, he slowly made his way down the hall. Panting heavily, Britain reached a shaky hand up to turn the door knob of a particular room… fairly collapsing inside. The room was fairly dark, without a single window. Strange symbols were etched into the floor and surrounded by a ring of unlit candles.

"_I'll light the candles, you get your cloak!_" the fairy said cheerily.

"Just… don't burn… yourself" Britain murmured, dragging himself across the floor. Mustering some small reserves of strength, he pulled himself over to an ancient looking chest. The lock was rusted and had ceased to work properly. With a low groan, the Englishman put all his body weight into pushing the chest open. As the lid flew back, his front half sprawled forward into the container. An intense series of coughs followed, mercilessly tearing at his respiratory system. Wheezing, the Englishman gripped tightly at the dark fabric he knew to be his cloak, as if squeezing it would return the air to his lungs.

"_Come on, Britain…you don't have time to waste_" chimed a small voice in his ear.

"Q-quite… right" the Englishman managed, he hefted himself into a sitting position, pulling the cloak along with him. With trembling hands, the English nation slipped the cloak over his head, letting it fall into place. He drew the hood up over his head and reached back into the chest, pulling from it an old spell book.

"_Now let's find the right spell_" the fairy said brightly.

"_Yeah Britain… we want you to get better so we can play together!_" another voice chimed in.

"Flying Mint Bunny… when did you come in?" the Englishman murmured breathlessly.

"_I've been in here the whole time!_" the winged rabbit giggled.

"_But we can discuss that later; right now we need to find the spell!_" Ms. Fairy urged.

The Englishman was sure the fairy guided his fingers as he leafed through the thick volume. He shuddered deeply "I… I think I'm going to pass out soon" he confessed weakly.

"_Not yet! You're sooo close!_" the fairy emphasized and pointed to a spell "_There! That one should do the trick!_"

The English nation shuddered once more as he tried to focus his eyes on the page "I... I can't" he tried to find his words, but was struggling. He couldn't focus enough to read the spell.

"_I'll help you_" the fairy's voice came soothingly "_Just repeat after me._"

In reality, Britain was very much alone in the room and very close to fainting. He murmured slowly the words of the spell, a spell that his fevered mind had cooked up. The spell itself sounded a bit like a poem.

"Faded eyes…"

"Foggy… mind"

"Stricken… by illness"

"No…strength... to find"

"Abandon …this… poor soul"

"Leave…me be"

"Strength…and Health…"

"Return…to…meeeee"

He drew the last word out as he collapsed to the floor. Blackness was claiming his vision, the whole world swept up by an intense fire that consumed his body. Surely he must be dying, for this fire was immensely hot and yet freezing at the same time. He struggled to pull air into his lungs, flailing like a fish out of water. Britain waited for eternal silence to claim him, to take away his last ties to this world. However, what came instead was anything but welcome. Violent coughs racked his body, causing every inch of the ailing nation to tremble and quake. Something warm and thick was rising in his throat, choking him further.

"_Britain! Britain! Britain!_" his magical friend's voices began to fade away from his ears, they had long since faded from sight. His body convulsed, even after the coughing had ceased. He was choking to death.

"BRITAIN!" he heard one final call in the distance.

Suddenly a pair of hands grasped his waist firmly and yanked him up. The same hands moved upward and soon moved in quick upward thrusts against his upper abdomen. With a splatter, the thick something was expelled from his throat and the Englishman desperately gasped for air, air that did not want to return to him.

"Merde" a French accent murmured.

Barely conscious, the Englishman felt his entire body being lifted up and carried away hurriedly. He was placed down on something soft… at least he could die somewhere besides the hardwood floor, he thought. However, death did not come. Instead some small portion of air began to fill his nostrils. He realized that someone must have slipped the nasal cannula back on him… he could breathe again, even if it was only a little.

"Please Arthur… don't die" a tearful French voice pleaded "I'll never forgive myself"

"F-France?" the Englishman breathed silently, eyes shut.

"Oui! I'm here Britain!" the Frenchman said.

"H-how… did?" Britain couldn't manage very many words, he was breathless and on the brink of losing the small bit of consciousness he still clung to. The Frenchman seemed to understand, however.

"I awoke and saw you were not in your bed… I am lucky I found you before…" the older nation trailed off at the thought.

The Englishman struggled against the impending darkness. "I'munna… passout" he slurred in no more than a whisper.

"Oui… I know" France swallowed hard "I am going to call for an ambulance, you need a doctor Mon Ami..." he trailed off when he realized his words had fallen on deaf ears; his younger brother had already fallen unconscious.

France's stomach was in knots. Yet again, he'd fouled up and nearly lost Britain. He didn't want to think about what would have happened if he'd slept through it all. The Frenchman shuddered and pushed that thought aside, he didn't have time to think about that now. Not only had Britain been struggling to breathe, but when he'd preformed the Heimlich maneuver on the Englishman, Britain had brought up thick mucus smeared with blood. France didn't have to be a doctor to know that was not a good sign. He was hesitant to leave the Englishman alone, but he had to get to the phone and it couldn't be helped.

Darting down the stairs, two at a time the Frenchman reached the phone quickly and dialed with haste.

"9-1-1… What's your emergency?" a man answered this time.

"Listen to me and listen good! Britain- Arthur Kirkland- is very ill! He is running a high fever, is coughing up bloody mucus, and can barely breathe! We need an ambulance right away!" the Frenchman's voice came heavily accented and immensely worried.

"We'll dispatch an ambulance immediately… can you give us the address?" the man asked.

France resisted the urge to snap at the man and once more relayed the address of Britain's home.

"Any other information we should know?" the man asked.

"He is up the stairs in the master bedroom. I will leave the door unlocked and wait there with him." France said, forcing himself to sound calm.

"Alright... we're on it" the man said and the Frenchman hung up.

After unlocking the front door, he returned to the Englishman's room and sat on the edge of his bed, heaving a sigh. Britain looked so very ill lying there. His skin was as white as a freshly fallen snow and the darkness that lurked beneath his closed lids seemed even more ominous. His whole body seemed to tremble. It was hard for France to watch his younger brother like this. The night before seemed to amount to nothing- not now that Britain looked like _this_. He didn't know how high Britain's fever was, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. All he knew was that until help arrived, he was going to do all he could for the younger nation. Standing from his spot on the bed, the Frenchman made his way into Britain's bathroom.

He hastily found a cloth and ran it under the cold water of the Englishman's sink. Once he'd rung it out, the older nation returned to Britain's bedside and began to pat down the Englishman's forehead and cheeks with the cloth. He listened to the labored breaths of the English nation, his stomach tightening further as he listened to the rattling sound that followed each ragged breath. Why did this have to happen to Britain? Even back in the days when they had been in near constant war with each other, France never would have wished this on Britain. Sure, the Englishman could be sarcastic and ill-tempered from time to time, but he didn't deserve _this_. Despite their differences, Britain had taken _him_- Francis Bonnefoy- into his own home and had taken care of him when he'd fallen ill. However, the Englishman had done more than that- he'd _acknowledged_ their brotherhood. He had set in motion a mutual understanding. After all, had France himself not admitted his own feelings of brotherhood toward Britain only after the Englishman's confession? Now that they'd verbalized it, now that they'd reaffirmed they were brothers- this issue had become that much more heart rendering. For if he was to lose Britain, he would not just lose an ally or a rival, but a _brother_.

The sound of approaching sirens roused France from his musings "Just hold on, Arthur, help's almost here" he said softly, tears in the corners of his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

**Hooray! The torture is back in the story! *evil laughter* This chapter has been roughly etched in my mind since the beginning of this story. Well, I can't say I had initially planned the severity of poor Iggy's coughing fit, but I did plan his hallucination. Hooray for Iggy almost choking to death? Before you call me crazy, I will remind you that I said early on I wouldn't kill him. So for those of you that remembered that, you probably figured something was obviously going to happen to save him! *laugh* Anyhow, it's back to the hospital for our poor ill Brit! The poor guy just can't seem to catch a break! Will the doctors be able to treat everyone's favorite Englishman? Will France lose his mind worrying? Stay tuned for Chapter 7! Reviews make me happy =) **


	7. Critical Condition

He held his head in his hands and wept. Perhaps last time he'd managed to keep his emotions in check, but not this time. In fact he needed the release from it all. Britain had come _far_ too close to dying back there. It was absolutely terrifying! France had been in the hospital's waiting room for the past three hours and he simply couldn't keep his worry pent up a minute longer. Perhaps last time it had helped to have America there, to have _someone_ at the very least to worry with him. As of the current, however, the Frenchman was very much alone. Indeed, there were few other people in the waiting room, but they were all strangers to the French nation. The Frenchman's shoulders shook as he wept inconsolably. He wasn't sure what he'd do if Britain didn't make it. Furthermore, he hated to think what might happen to the United Kingdom if Britain should die. Would it simply cease to be or would a new country take Arthur's place? He wasn't sure he wanted to find out. France wanted so badly to scream at the top of his lungs. To ask the world _why_ this had to happen to Britain. As things were, however, the Frenchman was too choked up to so much as speak clearly, let alone shout. Slowly, however, his tears ceased as he considered what he had to do. He'd have to call his own government and Britain's to inform them of what was going on. Perhaps he could also get an update on the Englishman's condition, not only for the sake of his own worries, but so he had more to report to the government. As this thought occurred to him, a nurse was passing in front of him. Without giving it a second thought, France grasped the hem of her skirt in his fingers, stopping her dead in her tracks.

The nurse flinched visibly and turned to face him "W-what do you want?"

The Frenchman released his grip on her skirt "Excusez moi, Mademoiselle, but would you happen to know how Arthur Kirkland is doing?"

"No, I wouldn't" the woman said, relaxing slightly "Though I can see about finding out for you."

"Merci, Mademoiselle. That would be appreciated" France said.

The nurse offered a short nod "And by the way, you are?"

"Francis Bonnefoy. I am the one who called the ambulance" the Frenchman replied.

The nurse nodded once more "Very well, Mr. Bonnefoy. Sit tight and I'll see if I can't find out about Mr. Kirkland for you." She said as she walked away.

France wrung his wrists as he waited, desperately hoping that the nurse would return bearing good news. Perhaps they had been able to treat Britain and he'd be feeling much better. Maybe Britain would be doing so much better in fact, that he'd request to see France. Perhaps he'd even _insult_ him. Indeed, if Britain would be up for throwing insults his way, France would surely take that as a sign he was recovering.

His desperate hopes were shattered as his eyes focused on the nurse returning to him. She wore one of those frowns that only came with ill tidings; a look that said she wished there would be some easy way to break the news. France felt as though his heart had left his chest and was sitting at the base of his throat- throbbing with intensity. He swallowed hard in an attempt to force it back into place- to try and force back the new wave of worry rising within him.

She moved closer and closer, the frown upon her lips only seeming more ominous a warning. She didn't have good news in the slightest. She stopped in front of the Frenchman and began to speak "Well then, I've inquired about Mr. Kirkland."

Slowly, France found his tongue "A-and?"

"He is in critical condition at this time and the doctor has not yet finished entirely assessing the situation." The nurse said "Visitors are positively out of the question" she added as an afterthought.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" France stood to his feet and gripped her shoulders, a pleading look in his eyes.

"I am sorry, sir. However, there is no more information I could gather at this time." The nurse said, fidgeting slightly in his grip.

With a sigh, the Frenchman released her "I see. Merci." he breathed sadly.

Nodding, the nurse walked off to fulfill her other duties.

France inhaled deeply. This news was certainly not welcome. Britain was in critical condition… That meant his life was in danger, a thought that did not sit well with the Frenchman. Granted Britain's life had probably been in danger for hours now, but for the nurse to confirm that and little else was certainly not a comfort. Pushing back his emotions, France made his way over to a small, black payphone that hung on the far wall. He decided it was best to go along with his initial plan if for no other reason than to keep himself occupied. After inserting a few British pounds into the coin slot, France rang through to his government. He supposed he was glad that he always carried some British currency with him. He usually didn't have much use for it, but as of late it had been coming in handy.

The Frenchman talked for a short while with his prime minister. Fortunately, the man seemed to understand that this situation was important and that France would return whenever he could.

Depositing a few more coins, France dialed the number for Britain's government, considering himself lucky that he'd made a point of memorizing it years ago simply to irk the English nation. He managed to reach a few members of parliament whom seemed quite aware of their country's condition and thanked the Frenchman for his efforts in aiding Arthur Kirkland and providing him with care. France tried to keep the conversation relatively short, seeing as this was not his government he was speaking to and he certainly didn't want to offend Britain's government. He could at least relax some in the knowledge that they were keeping tabs on the ill Englishman.

He was about to hang up the phone, but instead clenched it tightly in his hands. He felt overwhelmed with worry and needed someone to talk to. Mentally, he ran through his options… America deserved to know, but not right now. America was too obnoxious; there was no room for that right now. France thought for an instant he might call Spain, but pushed that thought away. Spain and Britain didn't get along and this situation didn't need to become any more stressed. Sifting through the other nations, France found there was only one person whom he could call at a time like this. Inserting another round of coins, the Frenchman dialed the number in mind.

A soft, gentle voice filled his ears "Hello, this is Canada. May I ask who you are?"

"Thank God you are home, Canada." France breathed; relieved he'd been able to reach the younger country.

"Is that you, France?" Canada sounded surprised.

"Oui" the Frenchman confirmed "I am sorry if I am disturbing you, Mon Petit."

"No… it's alright" the Canadian replied "Where are you calling from? Is Britain alright? When America called yesterday he said that Britain was really sick in the hospital."

"Oui. Britain was released this morning…but now he is back in the hospital in critical condition" France swallowed the lump in his throat "I am calling from the hospital's pay phone"

Canada was silent for a short while, almost long enough for France to think perhaps the younger nation had hung up. However, this conclusion was proven false when the Canadian's voice broke the silence "Wow… critical condition, eh? Does Alfred know?"

"Non... He left this morning and I could not bring myself to call him." The Frenchman confessed.

"Do you want me to tell him for you?" Canada asked softly "He does have a right to know… I mean, Britain raised him after all"

"I know that, Mon Petit" France's voice cracked slightly as he spoke "And I shall tell him soon enough. I would just like slightly better news to report, no?"

Canada didn't press the older man "How are you holding up?" he asked instead.

"To be honest, not very well" France admitted.

"Would you like me to come over there and wait with you?" Canada offered.

"Do not be silly, Canada. That is an awful long way for you to travel, just to sit in a waiting room with a sad fool like myself" France replied.

"I don't think it would be silly, I can be at the airport in 30 minutes. And I'll be in London before you know it" Canada said from the other side.

"That is ridiculous, why do you wish to do this?" France asked in confusion.

"Britain raised America, right?" Canada said.

"Oui…" the Frenchman wasn't entirely sure where Canada was going with this.

"Well, you raised me. If you could take me in as a small child, and provide for all my needs- how simple is it for me to simply keep you company now that you are in need of someone?" Canada replied.

"Canada…" France began, but trailed off. Not sure entirely what he was going to say.

"Au revoir, Papa" Canada said softly and hung up.

France blinked at the phone in his hand. Had Canada _really_ just done that? Had the mild mannered, often forgotten, Mathew Williams been _adamant_ about something? The Frenchman heaved a sigh as he placed the phone on the hook, a trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He really _didn't_ want to be alone right now and he looked forward to the arrival of his adoptive son. Canada was a soft, gentle spirit- perhaps his presence in itself would soothe the atmosphere of intensity.

The Frenchman trudged back over to the chair he had claimed hours prior and sunk back into deep thought. He quite literally felt sick with worry as his mind went over the grim facts of the situation. With eyes closed, and a hand to his temples, France spent hours playing over the events of the past two days. He would have stayed like that much longer, had not a pair of soft voices drifted into his ears.

"Who are you?" one voice asked.

"I'm Canada, your owner. We just took a long flight together." The other replied.

France opened his eyes to see the Canadian whom had apparently brought along his infamous polar bear friend, Mr. Kumajiro. "You did not have to come all this way, no?"

"I know" Canada smiled softly "But I figured you needed me."

"Who _are_ you?" Mr. Kumajiro interjected.

"I just told you. I'm Canada, your owner." Canada sounded only faintly annoyed, as this was a daily occurrence.

France couldn't help but smile slightly "It is good to see you Mon Petit"

The Canadian smiled back "It's nice seeing you too, eh?" he took a seat beside the Frenchman. Lavender eyes studied the man beside him. France looked every bit as weary as he'd imagined. To see his former caretaker so visibly upset, it only seemed to confirm how serious the situation was. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Canada carefully thought out his words.

"I'm a little confused as to all that's happened lately. Would you mind telling me everything from the beginning?" the Canadian asked gently.

"Oui. It is not the first time I have told this story" France sighed "And I do not think it will be the last."

"Take your time, Papa… I'm a good listener" Canada said softly.

The Frenchman regarded the younger nation a moment before he began "Everything started about a week ago. I took ill at the last Allies' meeting and Britain took me home to take care of me… During the time he was nursing me back to health, we reaffirmed our friendship… But it was more than that, Mon Petit. We admitted our feelings of brotherhood towards one another. I think we both knew deep down how we felt… but to have it spoken meant something. Britain took care of me faithfully until I was better, and in return for his hard work- he ended up sick… Yesterday morning I _knew_ he was sick, but I didn't tell him. No, I let him keep his dignity!" France gave a bitter laugh "Perhaps that was my first mistake.

The Canadian listened in silence as the Frenchman spoke. Mr. Kumajiro even seemed to have taken the hint to be silent, as he had curled up on the floor next to Canada's chair for a nap.

The French nation continued "Britain realized he had to get groceries at the store and so I went along with him, to keep an eye on him. Needless to say, he was not thrilled. I had figured if he started to really feel ill, I could simply offer to drive him home- but things were not so simple… As you know, I can be faulted in my obsession with the _anatomy_ of a woman. They are made with such elegance…They are so alluring." France laughed again, that same sad laugh "I became taken with a woman and followed her throughout the store, by the time I came to my senses and found Britain, he was delirious with fever. He really caused quite a scene… that was, until he passed out… I took him back to his house and found his temperature to be one hundred and five degrees Fahrenheit… Perhaps I should have brought him to the hospital then, no? However, I did my best to cool down his fever, and he did wake up…" the Frenchman paused, taking a deep breath to collect his thoughts.

"If this is too stressful right now, you can continue later." Canada said kindly.

"Non. I need to tell you, Mon Petit. You have not been involved up to this point, but now that you insist in being here, I want you to understand." France said, tears playing in the corners of his eyes.

"Alright" the Canadian said softly "But remember; if you need to break down… I'm here for you, Papa."

"Oui, I know, Mon Petit" the Frenchman took in a deep breath and continued "Britain realized he had not managed to buy any groceries and was concerned about it… he tried to get up, but he was so weak and dizzy that he fell… I caught him and laid him back down… Then, I promised him that I would buy his groceries- that he had nothing to worry about. So when he fell asleep I left to fulfill my promise… but I was so very stupid. In my hurry I forgot to lock the front door..."

"Then Alfred came in" Canada muttered under his breath, starting to grasp the situation.

The Frenchman nodded "While I was gone, the stupid American dragged Britain off to some fast food place. He did not notice Britain was sick until he started doing worse. It had started to rain about this time, and I arrived at Britain's house only to find he was not there… and I didn't know where he was… I was so scared, Mon Petit" France said, voice cracking.

The Canadian put a hand on the Frenchman's shoulder, rubbing gently.

"America returned with Britain, but it was of no consolation. Not only was Britain soaked to the bone, but he was running a fever over one hundred and six degrees Fahrenheit. Not to mention, he was struggling to so much as breathe…" France went on to tell how he'd called the ambulance, the time he and America had spent in the waiting room, and of the events leading up to Britain's discharge. He seemed to be speaking calmer for a bit, enough to where he genuinely laughed along with Canada as he spoke of the sleeping drops in the tea.

However, it was then that France tensed once more "W-while I was asleep his fever must have risen… he must have been delusional. Why else would he have left his bed in his condition? I awoke on his bedroom floor and discovering he was missing I searched frantically for him… as I neared a particular room I heard intense coughing that faded away. I quickened my pace and raced into what I can only assume was his magic room" France inhaled deeply "And he… he was…" he broke off as sobs consumed his ability to speak.

"Oh, Papa" Canada said gently and hugged the older man tightly. While he wanted to tell France everything would be okay, he couldn't be 100% sure. Obviously the scene France had found when he'd made it to the magic room was devastating.

Slowly, France found his tongue "He was lying there on the floor… h-his body was convulsing… Mon petit… he was choking to death…" the Frenchman shuddered "I- I managed to give him the Heimlich maneuver in time and he brought up a thick, blood smeared mucus… if that was not enough… h-his breath was not returning to him… he could not breathe… I-I-I managed to bring him back to his room and hook him up to the oxygen machine… but he was still in such very bad shape…" France's voice cracked once more "I don't even know how high his fever was… he slipped unconscious and I called an ambulance… 3 hours later I find out he is in critical condition" fresh tears streamed down his cheeks "That's w-what brings us here."

"I am so sorry, Papa. I had no idea Britain was this bad… or that you were hurting this much." Canada hugged his father figure.

"But do you not see, Mon petit? It is entirely fault Britain is so ill… I have made so many mistakes" France swallowed hard "H-he tried to convince me it was not my fault… but I know otherwise. I had so many chances to do the right thing and it would have been so easy to do so. But I was a fool and at each turn, allowed things to get worse. I'm so sick of myself!" he wept.

"So you made a few mistakes, but anyone can make them… I suppose I could be faulted in my invisibility at the Country meetings… Maybe if I spoke up sometimes… more things would get accomplished…" Canada said.

France paused in his crying and turned to the younger man "Non! Mon Petit… you may be silent and mild mannered, but that is what makes you who you are… it is not your fault!"

"That's what I'm trying to say, Papa… The mistakes you made were simply a part of your nature- who you are. You seem to forget you've also done a lot of good things the past two days. You not only watched out for Britain, but called an ambulance not once- but twice because things were so bad. You remained level- headed enough to take care of the emergency and didn't waste time with careless assumptions. You not only saved his life with the Heimlich maneuver, but by having him brought, well… here" Canada gestured with his arms "If anything, Papa. You've been a wonderful friend to Britain and an even better brother."

That was perhaps the longest speech France had ever heard the Canadian utter. Prone to silence, when Canada did speak it was certainly something to consider. Was he right? More importantly, had Britain been right all along? He hoped so, France really hoped so. Wiping away his tears, France embraced his son "Merci Mon Petit, Merci" he said softly.

How he wished this tender moment could have lasted. That he could revel in the gentle understanding the Canadian had provided. The silent comfort in his mere presence. The click of shoes on the tile floor returned him to the cruel reality that he was indeed in an emergency waiting room.

The same nurse from earlier approached him, with a look as grim as before. What news had she this time? ... He didn't want to consider it.

"Francis Bonnefoy" the nurse addressed him, tone as gentle as she could muster.

"Oui?" he managed.

"We've begun treating Arthur Kirkland for a heightened case of double pneumonia…" She began.

France took in a deep breath, knowing there was indeed more "A-And?"

"Sadly, he is not responding to treatment and his fever refuses to go down. With his lungs full of fluid and based on other factors… he may not make it through the night." She said.

Those words rattled through his skull like a bullet fired straight through his brain.

**Author's Note:**

**Sorry for the lack of update, I had some other things to get done, though I've really wanted to get around to this. And yes, Canada appears in this chapter with Mr. Kumajiro. On another note, we don't hear from Britain all chapter, but he's there in thought. Things look bad for the poor fellow =( Your only comfort, my dear reader, lies within author's notes passed. Yes, you know I will work things out and Iggy will live… but HOW will I do it? Hm? ;) Reviews make me happy and see you in Chapter 8~**


	8. Fighting for Survival

His hands trembled as he grasped his assault rifle for dear life. All his comrades had fallen and the odds seemed impossible. He'd been hidden in the foxhole for a while now, but Lord knows it was only a matter of time before they surrounded him. Shaky breaths came painfully from his lungs, perhaps a testament to how long he'd been fighting. His pale blond hair was plastered to his forehead with a mixture of sweat and mud. Emerald eyes darted around nervously, waiting for the enemy approach. Britain wasn't entirely sure when this war had begun, only that it was very real and he was incredibly weary.

Time had all swirled together and become indistinguishable. He didn't know the day, the month, or even the year. In fact, there weren't many things he remembered at all any more. Indeed, he had been in the heat of battle so long that he wasn't even sure the last time he'd tasted a good cup of tea. Odds were he was going to die on this battlefield. He would have liked to at least have one more cup of tea, but he quickly perished the thought. There were more pressing matters at hand. He was sure he had more than a few cracked ribs from the way his chest ached so. His once pristine olive uniform was now caked with the deep crimson of dried blood. And though his entire body screamed for rest, the Englishman simply couldn't give in just yet. Surely, he would die. The odds were all against him. However, if he was going to die, he planned to take as many of those enemy wankers out with him as possible.

Darkened skies seemed to foretell his imminent death, but Arthur Kirkland paid them no mind. He was a British gentleman after all, was he not? He was of class and stature, a country quite proud of his Queen. There had been a time long since passed in which he, the British Empire, had been quite possibly the greatest in the world. His people had accomplished so much. Surely that was a legacy worth fighting for- It was certainly a legacy worth dying for.

With adrenaline that could only come from firm resolve, Britain rose from the foxhole with a shout "God Save the Queen!" The pain in his chest suddenly grew heavier, but he forced himself to be numb to it. Now was the time to fight.

The enemy quickly approached. On a moment's reflection, Britain wasn't even sure they were human. Indeed, hundreds upon thousands of sinister shadows were closing in. While their shape seemed human enough, they had no distinguishable features… save for red eyes that glowed fiendishly. Perhaps enhanced by their otherwise featureless appearance. This enemy could have been made of nothing less than pure, unadulterated evil. Though he couldn't make out their weapons… Britain knew they were present. Several of his bravest comrades had paid the ultimate price in proving this.

Several shots rang out and Britain was met by the gratifying vision that he indeed had taken down a few targets. Yes, he would avenge his comrades' deaths and defend the British Empire until the very end. He was sure by now the enemy was returning fire, but he couldn't feel it… Perhaps he'd lucked out and they were missing, or perhaps he really was impervious to pain right now. In either case, the Englishman was grateful for the chance to keep firing so long as he was able. With any luck he'd at the very least leave one final lasting impression for himself. The world would never forget Arthur Kirkland…no… the world would never forget the United Kingdom!

A deafening explosion filled his ears, silencing the world. His body reacting to the impact before his mind could process the pain. He fell backwards as his limbs grew numb and cold. Blood poured from a fatal shot to the heart. Choking and gasping, his eyes began to dull rapidly. He knew he was dying, and he didn't mind. He'd served his country well. His vision blackened as the life left his body…

Intense pain was washed away in a consuming bright white light. The light seemed so inviting and warm and certainly beat the alternative. He was so very weary, and now the promise of eternal rest was beckoning him… eternal peace. How simple it would be to cross over into that, but he felt a small pang of sorrow… he had to bid everyone farewell, only then could he rest in peace.

The Englishman's mind turned toward the other nations "_Well now, where shall I begin? I suppose with my Allies, yes that's right. I suppose I won't be seeing you chaps again. I don't know how you'll get along without me, but I suppose you'll manage. Tis a pity that we couldn't get together one last time… Yes, America, I'm especially going to miss you. I still remember the times you were a tiny tot_" he felt tears in his eyes "_Despite what you may think, there was no greater joy in my life than raising you as a son. I know we may have fought often, and I wish very badly I had only gotten to tell you how much you mean to me… You've always been a strong country and I will always be proud of you. And France… France I know we bicker often, and I know you're a bloody pervert sometimes, but you are a wonderful big brother. You've always been there when it really counted; I only wish I could truly thank you for all the things you've done. Just know that I was mighty proud to call you my brother…_"

"_And so I fear tis my time to go… Farewell my fellow nations… Farewell_." With his final thought, he let the bright light consume him entirely. He had no further reservations, no fears. He was ready… the fight was over. He'd fought and he'd lost, but he'd died honorably. He'd died the death of a gentleman defending his country. It was now time that he surrendered. There was nothing left to fight for, nothing left for him to defend…

"_Britain!_" a voice cried out in his mind.

He recognized that French accent anywhere "_France… I say, are you dead too old boy?_"

France, however, didn't seem to hear his question "_Britain! Britaaaaaaaaain!_" he cried louder "_Oh please, Britain, don't die… you can't die!_"

This perplexed the Englishman. He _couldn't_ die? Didn't France know he was already dead? Wasn't _France_ himself dead if he could in fact hear him?

"_I-I know you've been fighting this thing so hard, Mon Ami… Y-you have been fighting for your life for hours now… but you cannot give up!_" France's voice sounded choked up.

Britain felt a pang of guilt "_France, you have to let go… nothing lasts forever_." He thought softly.

"_R-remember when we said we were brothers… well it's true. You are my brother Britain, and I need you! A-America needs you! The whole world needs you! ... You have no idea how many times I have beaten myself up since you have fallen ill. But you said that it was not my fault. You told me that I had a choice, Britain! You said I could either learn from my mistakes or wallow in self pity… Well now it is your turn, Mon Ami! You can either become stronger from this or let it beat you, but the Britain I know is stronger than that! ... Th-The Britain I know would stand and fight, regardless of the odds. Greatness is even in your name!_" France cried out "_You are the United Kingdom of __**Great**__ Britain and Northern Ireland, no?! Nowhere does your name say weak or fragile! You can beat this thing!_"

"_France.._." Britain was truly moved by the speech and a wave of sorrow hit him. If only it wasn't already too late…

"_Oh please… please Britain… come back_" France pleaded as sobs drowned out the rest of his words.

"_He's right, Britain. You have to live_" a child-like voice added.

The Englishman turned to see Flying Mint bunny beside him in this eternal light.

"_That's right Britain_" a feminine voice interjected "_Without you, we don't exist_."

"_But what can I do, Ms. Fairy? ... I think it's too late for me_." Britain confessed.

"_It's never too late, Britain_" Flying Mint bunny assured.

The fairy nodded her agreement "_It was the white light that brought you here, let the voices of those that care about you be a beacon to guide you back_."

"_Arthur… Arthur…_" France murmured somewhere in the distance.

Britain clung to those words, newfound determination bubbling within him. He had so many reasons to continue the fight… how had they slipped his mind? There was still so much for him left to accomplish, still so many memories to be made. America needed him, France needed him; the whole _bloody _world needed him! He couldn't abandon them now, certainly not. It wasn't his time… he could still make it. "_France, I'm coming, just don't let me down now_" the Englishman thought.

The once peaceful white light became his enemy as he struggled to find his way back. Now that he had the resolution to fight again, to live, the overwhelming brightness fought to claim him. It was like pushing against a hurricane. How much easier it would have been to simply surrender… to let it claim him, but no. He _had_ to fight, now more so than ever. The eternal light beckoned to him with the promise of eternal happiness and rest, but he forced himself to tune it out. Letting his mind solely focus on that one voice that wept for him. That one voice that was pleading for his return.

Slowly, it was working. The bright white faded into nothing and all became black. All was silent and peaceful. Had he truly died? No, he was in too much pain. Though the pain was welcome at this point… anything was better than what he'd very nearly done. His own ragged breaths sounded incredibly foreign to his ears, though otherwise it was utterly silent. Perhaps he was asleep now? No, voices were starting to fill his ears.

"He's beginning to respond to treatment!" one voice reported.

"His condition is stabilizing… he's going to make it" another voice said.

"Thank God" a heavy French accent uttered, followed by the sounds of sniffling.

The Englishman offered a pathetic groan, his bushy eyebrows knitted together. Slowly, he blinked his eyes open and let the world fall into focus. There had to be at least 3 nurses present, a woman he recognized to be Dr. Jamison, and by his bedside was France.

Dr. Jamison was first to address him "Well, you've been on quite the adventure, Mr. Kirkland. We very nearly lost you to complications of double pneumonia. Your body is beginning to respond to the treatment, but you still have a ways to go before you have a clean bill of health." She said and then smiled softly "Best get used to the idea of being our guest for the next week at the very least."

The Englishman knew he needn't reply. She was simply stating the facts. He wasn't even entirely sure he had the strength to speak right now.

"And this time, no removing your oxygen mask, Hm?" she added lightly.

Any other time he might have been embarrassed, but he was too ill and too weary to pay it much thought. He turned his head slowly to face France who stood rooted by his bedside.

The Frenchman looked like he'd shed more than his fair share of tears. He looked like he'd dealt with so much grief, and indeed he had. It made Britain's heart ache to see such a sad look on his brother's face. Though despite the sad air about him, he smiled softly at Britain "Welcome back, Mon Ami" he whispered.

**Author's Note:**

**And so we continue with chapter 8! Out of curiosity, did I fool anyone with Britain's dream sequence? I'm not very good at writing 'army' related scenes, so forgive me if it sucks. And yes! I killed Iggy, though it doesn't really count as it didn't really happen… Still, I bet I gave a fan girl somewhere a heart attack. My sincerest apologies if that is the case! So things seem to be finally looking up for Britain, huh? Yes, this story is probably nearing its conclusion… though I'm still unsure how many chapters are left. This chapter is very much seen from Britain's perspective, despite the third person view. I tend not to give hints to my next chapters, but expect the next chapter to run down the same events from France's perspective/ what's really happening. Reviews make me happy and see you in chapter 9!**


	9. Reasons to Live

Moments prior, he'd received terrible news. The only news that could have been worse was that Britain was already dead. France forced himself to snap out of the utter shock and very nearly tackled the nurse before him "S'il vous plait… where is he? You have to let me see him!" he cried.

"I-I'm sorry sir" the nurse stammered, clearly a bit startled by his outburst "It's long past visiting hours. Even if that weren't the case, the patient's condition is too critical. They're trying to save his life in there."

"Oui… I understand, mademoiselle. But you simply have to let me see him!" France pleaded.

"I'm sorry sir" the nurse said again, breaking free of his grasp and taking a few steps backward "But there is nothing I can do… It would be different if you were a close relative to the patient- a father, a spouse, a sibling, you see… but they will not make any other exceptions."

France felt like screaming at her, indeed he did. "What you do not understand mademoiselle, is that Arthur Kirkland _is_ my brother! We have been brothers for far longer than you can imagine! And if my little brother might die, then I assure you nothing you can say or do will keep me from being by his side!"

The nurse looked taken aback and paused awkwardly. When she did speak, her tone was far more meek "I will see what I can do… please wait here." She said as she walked off.

France heaved a sigh and relaxed only slightly.

Canada, whom had silently watched the exchange, put a comforting hand on his father's shoulder "I'll call Alfred so maybe he can catch a flight back to London. This is too serious not to tell him" he said softly.

"Oui… you are right, Mon Petit" France agreed.

"I know it will be rough in there, but stay strong, Papa." Canada said gently.

"Merci" France said softly.

The nurse returned shortly, walking briskly "Francis Bonnefoy? Follow me" she said rather tonelessly. Perhaps still a bit frightened by him.

With one last glance at Canada, the Frenchman followed the nurse beyond the Emergency room doors and down the hallway. She led him down several twists and turns to the intensive care unit. His heart pounded in his chest as they drew closer. It wasn't long before he was face to face with Britain, and the grim reality of the situation. The Englishman was as deathly pale as he remembered. Not only did an oxygen mask encompass his mouth and nose, but he was also hooked up to some monitors and an IV. All together, the room felt cluttered with technology- only reaffirming how sick Britain was. The English nation's body twitched unconsciously, as if he were in the middle of a bad dream.

While the nurse that had guided him there promptly left, there were still two women in the room- one of which France recognized as Dr. Jamison, the other had to be a nurse.

The doctor peered at him from behind her thick glasses "Mr. Bonnefoy, I must thank you for having Mr. Kirkland brought back in. While I can't promise you he'll make it, I can say we'll do everything in our power to see to it that he does." She spoke gently.

The Frenchman nodded "Merci"

Dr. Jamison turned her attention to Britain "His fever is entirely too high and he is without a doubt delirious… It's clearly affecting his nervous system" she gestured to the twitching Brit.

The Frenchman only half –listened as he made his way over to the Englishman's bedside. There was a very real chance Arthur Kirkland was on his death bed right now, the reality of it was almost too much to bear. Nevertheless, he could hold back his emotions for now… He could keep himself collected. There was still hope for Britain, right? The doctor wasn't ready to call it quits, so surely that was a good sign. Still, as he looked down at the Englishman, things didn't look very encouraging. He was obviously in a lot of pain and discomfort… even if he were to die in his sleep; France imagined the Englishman would die anything but peacefully. This whole situation was mind-blowing and seemed entirely unreal. Indeed, the Frenchman wished it was just that… that this situation was merely the product of an overactive imagination, a bad dream. If he could just open his eyes to a new reality in which things had never come to this… Mentally, France berated himself for the foolishness of that thought. There was no time to let his mind wander… not right now. For what felt like hours, he sat there… watching the ill nation.

Then, without warning, Britain began writhing as if in pain. His teeth were bared and his thick eyebrows were furrowed in what appeared to be anger or discomfort, perhaps a mix of the two.

"Britain?!" France asked frantically.

Monitors were sounding as he watched the nurse dart over and attempt to restrain Britain. The Englishman, however, continued to struggle violently.

"What is happening to him?!" France asked frantically.

"It's a neurological reaction to his delirium… in short he's trapped within an incredibly vivid fever dream" Dr. Jamison said hurriedly "In his current condition we can't afford to having him thrashing about like that." With that she left the room momentarily, only to return with two more nurses to assist in holding the Englishman down.

France watched helplessly, unsure of what to do. What could he do? It was taking three nurses to keep Britain down, and though none of them said anything- he was sure they felt he was in the way. He backed up a bit to give them their space, silently praying that Britain would be alright.

All at once, the Englishman's body gave one final jolt and then went completely limp. The intense look upon his countenance disappeared… Indeed, it went completely blank.

Before the Frenchman knew what was happening, monitors blared fresh warnings as the three nurses scattered to different tasks. Dr. Jamison was shouting out instructions… Everything had turned to chaos around him. He didn't dare ask what was going on, but he felt an undeniable sense of horror rising within him. Something was very wrong. It looked as though Britain had ceased to breathe altogether. He watched as the nurses and doctor darted to different tasks while he stood rooted to his spot like a tree. In all the confusion, he only caught tidbits of what they were saying.

"…rate dropping!"

"Quickly now, use…"

"…Losing him!"

Tears stung his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Britain really _was_ dying. He was dying right in front of him and there was nothing he could do to stop it "Britain!" France cried out helplessly, shoulders shaking as more tears fell.

"Britain! Britaaaaaaaaain!" he wailed "Oh please, Britain, don't die… you can't die!" the Frenchman wept. Britain just _had_ to live! For him to die… it was just too painful to even process. No, this couldn't happen, it couldn't!

Dr. Jamison turned to France, a certain grim look to her expression. With a single hand's motion, she beckoned him over to Britain's bedside "Modern medicine can only do so much… He is fading quickly… I can only safely assume he has no will left to live."

The Frenchman understood and grasped the Englishman's pale hand in his own, squeezing it in an attempt to tell Britain he wasn't alone. He sniffed back a few sobs "I-I know you've been fighting this thing so hard, Mon Ami… Y-you have been fighting for your life for hours now… but you cannot give up!" more tears sprung from the French nation's eyes as he spoke. Why did the world have to be so cruel to Britain? Why now that they had finally admitted their brotherhood did they have to be torn apart? Had they taken life for granted? Assuming that since they were both nations; that they would last forever? No, that wasn't it… both France and Britain had learned that lesson long ago in the year 1000. Even though the world hadn't ended like so many had speculated, it had still opened both their eyes to their own uncertainties about the future. Every day was a gift; every day had a purpose in the grand scheme of things.

France composed himself as best he could; he just had to reach Britain… somehow!

"R-remember when we said we were brothers… well it's true. You are my brother Britain, and I need you! A-America needs you! The whole world needs you! ... You have no idea how many times I have beaten myself up since you have fallen ill. But you said that it was not my fault. You told me that I had a choice, Britain! You said I could either learn from my mistakes or wallow in self pity… Well now it is your turn, Mon Ami! You can either become stronger from this or let it beat you, but the Britain I know is stronger than that! ... Th-The Britain I know would stand and fight, regardless of the odds. Greatness is even in your name!" France cried out "You are the United Kingdom of **Great** Britain and Northern Ireland, no?! Nowhere does your name say weak or fragile! You can beat this thing!" the Frenchman tried to choke back his sobs, but the tears refused to stop flowing.

"Oh please… please Britain… come back" his voice cracked as his tears overwhelmed him. He'd said all he knew to say- it was up to Britain now… no… it was up to Arthur Kirkland. His mind flooded with memories as he wept. They'd had so many meaningless arguments over the years, but France didn't regret a single one. Those fights were a part of what bonded them; a part of what made them brothers.

"Arthur…Arthur…" France sobbed. There was so much he wished he could say… To tell Britain how much their brotherhood meant to him, but he couldn't be sure his words were even being heard. All he could bring himself to do was murmur the Englishman's name softly, hoping and praying he wouldn't die.

Silence hung in the air, the only sound to be heard was France's inconsolable weeping.

The hissing sound of oxygen filled his ears, causing France to look up.

The monitors bleeped with new information.

"Oxygen levels and heartbeat regulating" one nurse reported.

"Alright, let's increase the medication flow slightly" Dr. Jamison instructed, hoping for the best.

France gave the Englishman's hand a squeeze "_S'il vous plait… let it work this time. Let him live_" he prayed silently.

Several minutes passed as awkward silence hung in the air. Every one of them waiting, watching, and hoping for a miracle.

"He's beginning to respond to treatment!" one of the nurses's reported cheerfully, shattering the silence.

Dr. Jamison took a moment to study the statistics in her possession and smiled lightly "His condition is stabilizing… he's going to make it."

"Thank God" France felt incredibly relieved. He sniffled slightly as he did his best to wipe away his tears. Finally some _good_ news! Britain was going to live. Sure, he would still be sick and still need time to recover, but he was going to live!

The Frenchman watched patiently as Britain began to stir. His green eyes fluttered open. His eyes were still hazy with fever and the unavoidable exhaustion that came with being so ill, and yet he seemed attentive. At least for the moment, the Englishman seemed to grasp the situation. His eyes drifted from the three nurses in the room, to Dr. Jamison, and then to France.

As Dr. Jamison spoke with Britain, France was mentally rejoicing. None of all the madness and heartache mattered anymore… things would finally turn around. Britain would be able to recover under the watchful eye of Dr. Jamison… and France wouldn't have to bid his little brother farewell. It was then that he felt Britain's eyes train on him.

The Englishman looked perplexed and perhaps a bit pained. France supposed he must feel guilty for causing so much grief. The Frenchman was sure it only seemed to confirm Britain's guilt, his own eyes puffy and red from a mix of crying and fatigue. At a glance he could tell Britain wasn't much up for a talk now, but that was just fine. France didn't feel much like talking at the moment either… he was emotionally drained. Still, he felt the need to encourage Britain… to show him things were alright. He smiled down at his younger brother "Welcome back, Mon Ami" he said softly.

Though Britain didn't say anything, the softening of his gaze spoke for him… it was almost as if he was saying "_Good to be back_."

It wasn't terribly long before Britain drifted off to sleep. Lord knows he needed it if he was to get well. However, this time France could have peace of mind knowing that Britain was going to be okay. It might take a bit of time, rest, medicine, and special care- but ultimately he would be alright. For the time being, Britain would be kept in the ICU for monitoring, but was expected to be moved to a room before visiting hours started up again. Though it was insisted he stay in the waiting room for the remainder of the time, France could say he honestly didn't mind right now. He wanted to tell Canada, and perhaps America the good news. If indeed the self proclaimed hero had showed up. No, France knew beyond the shadow of a doubt- America would be there.

**Author's Note:**

**Yes, I know this means the torture is pretty much done for this story. So sad, right? =( I'm pretty positive the next chapter will be the last one, but I can't say for sure until I have it all typed up. All in all, I've had a lot of fun with this story and it makes me a teeny bit sad to think that the story will end soon, but at the same time I think it's for the best. I have an ending already roughly in mind, and I'm pretty sure you guys will enjoy it =) Thanks to all the kind reviews I've received thus far and I appreciate any new reviews! They really make me happy and inspire me =) See you all in Chapter 10~**


	10. Lean on Moi

He stepped passed the Emergency room doors, making his way back into the waiting room. No sooner had the doors shut behind him and France was plowed into by some strong, outside force. Said force would have probably bowled him over, had it not elected to firmly grip his shoulders instead- shaking him like a rag doll.

"Alright Frenchy; start talking! Where's Britain! Huh? Where is he?! Is he okay?!" America demanded as he shook the Frenchman.

It took France a moment to get his bearings, but once he had, he took charge of the situation "Snap out of it la Amérique! If you really want to know about Britain, you will calm yourself!" he snapped.

America promptly stopped what he was doing, his worry for Britain taking precedence over his hyperactivity.

"That is better" France huffed; glancing past the American to where Canada was standing. Judging by the way his arms were outstretched and his eyes widened, France could only guess that the Canadian had tried and failed to stop America's assault.

"Mon Petit, this news is for you too, no?" France said lightly.

The Canadian snapped out of his stupor and walked over to stand beside America so he might hear whatever news France had, and be a comfort if necessary. He studied France's face a moment. While it was evident the Frenchman had done a good deal of crying, the air about him didn't seem nearly as depressing- that had to count for something, right?

"First of all, Mon Petit, have you filled la Amérique in on what has happened?" France inquired.

"Oui, Papa." Canada said with a soft nod.

"Then let me start by saying Britain is going to make it! He is finally responding to treatment!" France's eyes glistened with tears of joy.

"Oh Papa, that's wonder-" Canada was cut off by his brother.

"Really?! Britain's okay? No way! For real? Let me see him!" America burst out, running for the emergency room doors.

France caught the edge of the younger man's bomber jacket and held firmly "Not so fast, you stupid American!" he scolded. "Have you any idea how very late it is? Britain is still very sick and he needs his rest!"

"I don't care! I have to see him! I have to make sure he's really okay!" America shouted, struggling against France's grip on his jacket.

It took every ounce of strength he could muster to hold the American back, and France was still surprised he was able.

"I-It's four in the morning, Alfred" Canada tried to assist France "I know you're upset, but try to calm down… Britain's going to be alright, and I'm sure he'll be very happy to see you later." He said softly.

"Mon Petit is right, la Amérique. You can visit with Britain later, but right now the most important thing is his rest, no?" France said; his tone a bit gentler this time.

America finally ceased in his struggling and hung his head "…Fine."

France released the younger man's jacket and placed a hand on his shoulder, causing the American to turn to him "I understand how you feel, la Amérique" he said, a soft smile upon his lips "But believe moi, you do not want to see him as he is now… he has been how you say? Run ragged by this illness."

"That's not very comforting" America said dryly.

France gave a short laugh "I suppose not, but consider this. If you just let him have a few hours sleep, he will be feeling much better than he is now… You just have to hold out and be strong for Britain until then, no? Or are you not the hero you claim to be?"

"Of course I'm the hero!" America spat back angrily.

France smirked slightly "Now there is the stupid American we all know and love!"

America took on an expression of shock for a moment before offering a brief smile "Thanks France, sorry I was acting like a total nutcase… I didn't hurt you with my awesome strength, did I?"

France shook his head and rolled his eyes "Non, I am fine, la Amérique"

"Umm, I kind of helped talk you down, and I tried to hold you back from tackling France..."Canada spoke softly "Not that I expect a thank you!" he added quickly.

"Who are you?" Mr. Kumajiro piped up, as if on cue.

Canada turned his attention to the small polar bear at his feet "I'm Canada, your owner… what are you doing up?"

"How can I sleep when you people are so noisy?" Mr. Kumajiro replied.

Before Canada could respond, America began spouting an apology in his direction.

"Aw, man. Canada, dude I am so sorry, I totally forgot you were still here! I feel like such an idiot!" America blurted.

The Canadian, however, was used to this and simply waved it off. "Oh, it's okay, you're really worried about Britain so you're bound to make mistakes." He offered America the excuse.

"I'm still sorry though, dude" America said seriously "And thanks a ton for your help."

Canada smiled at this "In that case, America, you're welcome"

As they spoke, France collapsed into one of the waiting room chairs. He leaned his head back and shut his tired eyes. Even if he couldn't sleep, the Frenchman had decided he could at the very least relax. He exhaled deeply, permitting his shoulders to sag as he simply tried to unwind a bit. He heard the soft shuffle of Canada and America taking seats close by.

"Is he asleep?" he heard America ask quietly.

"I don't know…" Canada said uncertainly.

"He looked pretty spent" America replied.

"I guess you have a point… I just have a hard time believing he fell asleep so quickly" Canada replied sheepishly.

France let a brief smile play on his lips, but said nothing. At least for the time being, he'd let them believe he was asleep. He was rather exhausted after all, and he didn't feel like talking any more right now. Yes, by feigning sleep he had the perfect alibi.

In the subsequent silence, hours passed by and France himself was unsure if he might have truly dozed off for a short while. Upon opening his eyes, he studied the clock on the wall. After determining that it was indeed nine o' clock, he turned to his right and gently prodded the Canadian beside him. Apparently he hadn't been the only one to doze off.

"Mon Petit, wake up" the Frenchman spoke softly.

Canada groaned slightly as he blinked open his violet eyes "Morning already, eh?" he said lightly.

"Visiting hours have begun, would you wake up la Amérique?" France asked "I think he would take it better from you, no?"

"You're probably right, Papa" Canada stifled a yawn as he set about the task of waking America.

After the American had been woken, and a nurse had been notified of their request to visit Britain, it was decided that Canada would stay in the waiting room. He wasn't as close to Britain as France or America, and he didn't want to overwhelm the poor Englishman with visitors. America himself might have been a bit more than Britain could handle already. Canada would have been legitimately concerned if it weren't for the fact France would be there as well and would be able to step in if necessary.

Shortly, France and America found themselves walking through the doorway of a top floor hospital room. The room in itself seemed rather nice, France noted at a glance before his eyes fell on Britain.

An oxygen mask still adorned the Englishman's face, an IV still ran through his arm, and yet he looked slightly better. Perhaps it was the lack of additional machines and monitors, or the natural light shining through the window. In comparison to last night, anything would seem like an improvement, he realized.

America had silently made his way to the Englishman's bedside, his eyes brimming with tears. At the moment he wasn't sure whether he was relieved Britain was alive, or devastated that he was so ill. He guessed it was a mixture of the two. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes in an effort to quell the tears before they could fall. A few sniffles escaped him in the effort.

A soft groan filled the air "I say…are you… crying…America?" the voice was weak and raspy, but unmistakable.

America hurriedly jammed his glasses back onto his face, looking at the Englishman in surprise "Britain! Are you okay? H- How are you doing?"

Britain stared back up at the American. Green eyes studying the younger man as if deciding something "I'll be…alright… though… I do feel…as though… I've been… hit by a bus." He admitted.

"Dude, it sounds like you're really having a hard time talking- are you sure you should be?" America asked with concern.

"I-I'll be fine… you git." Britain did his best to shoot America a glance "I… have to… tell you something"

France took his cue to pretend to be fascinated with the view outside the hospital window. He wanted America and Britain to be able to talk without feeling like he was listening in… even if he was.

"Oh man, this isn't like that time in World War Two when you were on your deathbed is it?" America began to panic.

"Of course not… you dolt" the Englishman narrowed his eyes slightly.

"I'm sorry, Britain dude… I just totally start panicking when I see you like this! I don't know what I'd do without you!" America proclaimed.

Britain's eyes softened once more "You know…America. Despite what… you may think… I am quite proud… of you."

"Y-you are?" America said in surprise.

The Englishman offered a soft nod "You may be… a blundering…idiot sometimes… but that doesn't change the fact… you are a strong… country." He took a deep inhale of oxygen "You've grown… so much… from that little boy… I took in… so many years ago."

"Britain…" tears were playing at the corners of the American's eyes once more.

The English nation smiled softly "You have… accomplished quite a lot… for yourself. However… I can't help missing… that little boy. The one I held…and cared for… But you've grown up… and I can't… change that. Lord knows…I tried. But know that… you will always be… that little boy to me… Because you are… my son."

At Britain's words, America found his tears had spilled over and he furiously tried to swipe them away "Oh m-man, I can't cr-cry like this! I'm the h-hero!"

"I promise… I won't t-tell a soul" Britain said softly.

America hugged the older man tightly, tears streaming down his cheeks. While Britain was a bit surprised by the sudden gesture, he moved a trembling hand to the American's back- rubbing gently.

"I know we fight a lot, but you're the best father a country could ask for" America whispered in the Englishman's ear, voice crackling slightly from emotion. He promptly pulled back, studying Britain's expression.

The Englishman wore a weary and yet tender smile "I'll probably deny this… when I'm well… but raising you… was perhaps the happiest days… of my life."

America's eyes glistened with fresh tears; he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so moved. Then again, it wasn't often that much fazed him at all.

There was a light wrap at the door and a nurse poked her head inside "I hate to interrupt, but Mr. Kirkland needs his rest now."

"Bloody hell… I just woke up" Britain murmured.

"No, she's right dude… you need all the sleep you can get" America said, drying his eyes "Get well soon, okay?" he said as he made his way over to the door.

France was about to follow suit, when Britain spoke up once more "Just a moment… Nurse… mind giving me… a few more minutes here?"

"I suppose so, I'll give you 10 more minutes… but that's all." The nurse closed the door behind herself.

France turned to the Englishman curiously "Mon Ami, you really ought to listen to the nurse, no?"

"Oh shut it… Frog" Britain replied "I have something… to say to you too."

France arched an eyebrow "Oh? And what would that be, Mon Ami?"

"I wanted… to thank you" Britain said hoarsely, his voice growing weaker due to all his sudden talking "N-not just for t-taking care of me… or having me driven… to the hospital."

"Oh?" the Frenchman was rather surprised, he couldn't think of anything else he'd done that would warrant thanks.

A soft nod was his response "Yes… y-you see… I almost died… last night."

"Oui… I know, Mon Ami" France said quietly.

"Funny thing was… I was ready to d-die… I wasn't afraid… of it." Britain continued.

France listened silently.

"I pr-probably would have died… w-were it not for one voice… that g-guided me back… That v-voice was yours."

"S-So you could hear me?" France breathed.

Britain nodded again, eyelids fluttering "Y-you really did… save my life… last night. I m-may not remember… all of what you said… but I know it's thanks to you… I'm alive"

France swallowed a lump in his throat as tears began to run down his cheeks "I am so glad Mon Ami… that it was my words that reached you. I was worried you would not know just how much you mean to me"

"Believe me… Frog… I understand c-completely. A-and for …the record… you're a wonderful older br-br-brother…" the Englishman's voice died out.

"And you are a wonderful little brother… if not a little stubborn sometimes, no?" France said with a gentle smile.

Britain smiled faintly; it was easy to tell that his exhaustion had again caught up to him. His eyes were growing distant, already half- way shut. France watched him as his eyes slipped closed entirely, sleep claiming his younger brother. When he was sure Britain was asleep, he pulled the English nation's blankets up and gently smoothed them over.

"I know I am not perfect, but I hope you know Mon Ami… should you ever need anything big or small, you can lean on moi" France whispered.

**Epilogue:**

In time, Britain made a full recovery and things became relatively normal. Though the Englishman knew deep down that things were not quite the same. There were still arguments, and still headaches, and yet something really was different. No one else may have known, but it was just as well. He and France really _were_ brothers… While he'd never want to go through the experience again, Britain was grateful for the time he'd spent ill. Not for the sickness itself, to be sure, but for the strengthening it had done in the relationship between him and his brother.

**Author's Note:**

**And so Lean on Moi comes to a close, I honestly feel like this chapter is horribly written. However, that may have something to do with the fact I'm sad to see this story end. *laughs* By the way, Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I still think it's odd that one should have to put a disclaimer on something that is already labeled as FAN fiction, but I'll do it just to be safe. If you've enjoyed my writing, there's a poll on my profile inquiring as to the next Hetalia story you'd like to see written =) Thank you all, dear readers, for following me through this story. I really do love reviews, so please let me know what you think~**


End file.
